The Commission
by jozette
Summary: Neal's art leads him to the door of a mysterious billionaire. First Neal gets drawn into a secret world, and then Peter must go after him. What they learn in the process may or may not be enough to face the shadowy world of the ultra-rich in Book 2.
1. Chapter 1

Diana stretched as far as she could in the cramped van's interior. "Does that offer for a bachelor party still stand?"

Neal grinned at the FBI's most eligible lady-loving agent just off the market. "I hope you actually manage to walk all the way down the aisle this time. Suzette is a rich, beautiful sugarmama. If you're smart you'll retire from this glamorous life." He didn't have to open his arms very far to encompass the monitors and audio equipment "Take advantage of equal opportunities for being a kept spouse now that it's legal in New York."

He sniffed the musty smell that seemed to live in the surveillance van and grimaced. Being a confidential informant was much smellier than the thieving days just behind him.

They gazed at the displays for the convention where Peter Burke, Neal's handler, and another agent named Jones were undercover. It was an accountant convention, so Peter was in his element and Jones was bored out of his mind.

"What about you? You've definitely got an in with the upper crust these days," Diana said after awhile, with a deadpan expression.

"What about me what? I don't do things like that! I thought we were friends." Neal glared at Diana with sudden anger.

Actually, the FBI agent did consider the ex-criminal a sort of friend. Neal was so full of life he made a sometimes boring job interesting. This was one of the few occasions she'd really pissed him off, and the fact that it was this particular subject that was a sore spot pissed her off a little as well.

"Oh, so the great womanizer Neal Caffrey gets all offended at a little joke about being with a guy? I had no idea you were so homophobic. I'll skip the party, thanks."

Neal was chuckling and then laughing outright. "That's all you meant? I thought you were asking me if I was hanging around on Park Avenue trying to gold-dig, and I couldn't understand why someone who knows me at all could think that I would marry someone for their money. You know I believe in love."

Diana was still looking at him coldly and he shook his head in wonder. "You honestly think I'm homophobic? Now it's my turn to be offended."

They listened to the audio feed of what had to be the dullest stakeout Neal had ever been on, and then Diana asked slyly, "So that means you could potentially benefit from the new same-sex marriage law."

Her companion gave a long, low whistle. "If you're asking me if I'm one of the family, you could've saved yourself the setup, Diana. Love is love, that's all I have to say about it."

He felt Diana's eyes on him and smirked a little. The time he'd been spending with a certain ultra-wealthy person had piqued Diana's interest and this was her fact-finding mission. He didn't mind fanning the flames of gossip a little. After all, when people think they have you all figured out they take you for granted, and someone in Neal's position, always one step away from going back to prison, couldn't afford that.

His companion opened her mouth to pursue the matter further, but then they heard an oath in Jones' voice and Peter calling for backup in a scuffle visible in the monitors. They eventually apprehended the dishonest accountant, but not before he made Jones and lunged for his throat with a decidedly un-accountant-like fury.

Because the perp was not known to be violent, no one thought there was anything amiss in the way the agents had behaved, but Jones and Peter knew better.

Somehow Diana had mistakenly left the audio feed to the two-way setting during her conversation with Neal, and both of the undercover agents had listened to every word through their ear pieces. It was more interesting than listening to people talk about balance sheets, and it threw them off their game.

Though Peter realized guiltily that he had been the more distracted of the two. Something half-clicked in his head and it paralyzed his body. His reaction to the accountant's burst of rage had been a split second slower than it should have been, though Jones didn't seem to have noticed.

By Saturday, Peter gave in. It was killing him, so he told Elizabeth that he was going in to the office for a few hours.

"Oh, honey, I thought we agreed this Saturday was for us," she said, rubbing his back. "But you know what I said when I married you."

"That you would never try to change me," Peter completed, taking time out between bites of breakfast to give his wife a quick peck. "You're an evolved soul, hon."

A month earlier, Elizabeth had taken advantage of a similar working weekend for her husband. As he headed in to the office, Elizabeth had poured herself some more coffee. "Well, do you mind if I use this time to have Neal give me his advice on the company's catalog and web design? For the amount of money I'm paying the designer, I don't want to wake up the next morning and decide I hate it."

"By all means, honey, if it will stop you from worrying." Peter was already grabbing his briefcase. "I'll call you if these reports drag on longer than usual."

When he was gone, Elizabeth dialed Neal. "Do you have plans today? Because I'm dying for you to come over and discuss a surprise I had in mind."

For the past two days, Peter had been turning Neal's cryptic response about his sexuality over and over in his mind, which might have been a way to avoid thinking about why he was thinking about it.

It was the whole "mystery of Neal Caffrey" hobby of his. He was addicted to finding out new little facts about his onetime quarry and current—colleague.

Peter began searching through Neal's files with the same urgency with which he had performed similar searches in the past. Those times, he had been concerned that Neal was about to commit a crime, or had committed one that Peter didn't know about. But this time, it wasn't about bringing his friend to justice anymore; he just needed to feel like he knew everything there was to know about the enigmatic crook who was his friend.

It was simple prudence, Peter was telling himself as he scrolled backwards through Neal's extensively documented history. Here was one: Neal had posed as an exclusive male escort in Amsterdam so he could steal back a priceless antiquity some gay thief had won from Neal in a (supposedly rigged) card game.

"But that's classic Caffrey," Peter murmured at the coffee maker. "He'll take any means to get to his desired end." Or almost any. Neal had this selective but intense sense of morality that put certain people off limits from his cons, and made others worthy of a kind of Robin Hood-like protection. The way Peter had caught Neal was by knowing the notorious con man had a passionate heart.

Kate. Peter didn't hope to find anything to fit his new theory during the times when the Juliet to Neal's Romeo was in his life. He did find one instance in which Neal had used his impeccable sense of style to pose as a gay best friend kind of guy for an heiress who had inadequate security for her jewels. Befriending for mercenary reasons, okay in the Caffrey moral code. Marrying for money, no. Peter shook his head. One thing he knew all too well was that being Neal's friend may or may not come out on top in the con man's, ex-con man's, ethical calculus.

Peter went all the way back to the earliest documentation on Neal, but found nothing to indicate that he'd missed something so important as Neal being into men.

"Diana's gay, of course she'd eventually ask Neal if he was. Those clothes, after all," Peter chuckled, thinking of his friend's impeccable suits and hats as he was beginning to pack up for the day. He locked away his personal external drive and prepared to return home. One single overlooked variable could mean, say, a stray Nazi treasure trove, such as Peter chased for months without being able to prove Neal had it. But there was nothing to indicate that Peter had missed Neal having a hidden sexual life. All was right in the shared world of Burke-Caffrey.

And if it ever wasn't, Burke would be on top of it immediately. Their rules of engagement established over years wouldn't have it otherwise.

Peter smoothed the last unsettled edge of his instincts and made his way home.

"So, what's this surprise?" Neal had asked on that earlier Saturday at the Burke coffee table over lunch. Catalogue samples were strewn on the table, but he had quickly picked out the best designs so they could get to the real reason for his invitation.

"It's about Peter's birthday," Elizabeth turned to him excitedly from her armchair.

"But he just had a birthday a couple months ago," Neal said.

"And I wanted to give you plenty of time to make it happen," she said with a sly smile.

Neal waved his hands in front of him. "No, if this is about getting sports memorabilia of questionable provenance, I'm not going to piss him off like that. He'll ask questions eventually."

"No, silly, it's something you would make, and he would know you made it."

"You want me to make my grilled fish and a chocolate soufflé?" Neal asked. "Peter does like that. Or maybe something more special."

"I can't believe this wouldn't be the first thing you would think of. I want to commission a painting for Peter's birthday," Elizabeth said, pushing the plate of cookies towards her guest.

"I can do any style you like," Neal said, beginning to get enthused. He looked around. "I think a nice Matisse would really set off this sunny room."

"You choose the style, but here is the subject matter." His host slid a photo towards him.

It was the snapshot of him and Peter wearing tuxedos and smiling. They looked like equals. Like friends.

Neal's heart sank.

"Elizabeth, you were an art major, you should know better than anyone: I'm a world-class draftsman, not an artist."

"You have an artist's soul, Neal, everything you do is art," Elizabeth said, tipping a little rum into her coffee and offering it to her friend.

Neal poured a generous shot. "I'm like someone who's been doing an accent for so long I don't have my own."

Elizabeth sensed she'd touched a sensitive subject. She reached over and squeezed his arm. "Then that's fine. Consider this a commission to do whatever you want. Paint the two of you like Rembrandt would have done it, or Warhol. Whatever you like. I know this portrait would mean a lot to Peter, as long as it came from you."

"Can I paint us as ruffed Elizabethan lords?" Neal asked, beginning to warm to the idea.

"I leave it up to you," Elizabeth said, dunking a cookie. Her birthday plan was in motion.

There were sketches littering the apartment, but the canvas Neal had started on the easel was of himself like a Gauguin.

"Because he sees you as this exotic species," Mozzie immediately grasped when he walked in the door.

"Or what about this one? The painter showed him a Lichtenstein-style pastel sketch with the characteristic dotted cartoony features and blank thought bubbles above the heads.

"You won't get away with it," Mozzie said, sotto voice, pointing to the cartoon Peter.

"Catch me if you can," Neal replied in kind.

This went on all weekend. Neal sketched out a couple dozen ideas, some with him and Peter in the same artist's style, sometimes mismatched. When Mozzie was there they talked about it; same with June.

It was great fun.

Until Neal realized that it was about time he commit to an idea, and nothing seemed more than what it had been—a game. Elizabeth's words, "as long as it came from you," echoed in his mind with the ring of something sublime and truthful he could never equal.

"I haven't been to church in awhile," Neal said to his friend.

"By all means, you should go," Mozzie said. His owlish little friend and mentor was serious about spirituality, in any form. For him, Buddhism did the trick most days. Neal worshiped at a different church.

Actually several, but often on Friday. Friday was the optimal day of worship because it was suggested donation. At most New York museums, anyway.

It really had been some time since he had gone to sketch, Neal told himself. Looking at the art with his hands' sensibility was entirely different than just going to soak everything in. He'd long ago finagled a pass at the Met, so he could go there any day. He chose the Guggenheim because the snail-like spiral always made him feel like he was shedding the world in one long curl of jaded skin, so by the time he got to the top, where the most avant-garde stuff was usually displayed, his senses were raw, exhilarated.

But this Friday he merely watched the part of himself that calculated how much each piece was worth, how he'd forge it or steal it, and where a likely market would be.

"I've lost my edge!" Neal exclaimed inwardly in horror. What made him such a good forger was that he could get inside the feeling of a painting, what the artist was thinking when he or she created a work. If you think of a piece of art as a clockwork, something that moves, most people could only hope to create the golden exterior, but it remained empty. Neal got all the moving parts to go.

Except not anymore. His sketches were hollow—not only to his trained eye, but, he fancied, to others as well. Usually his focus on the sketchpad could keep unwanted conversationalists at bay, but other museum-goers seemed drawn to his frustration today, and when they passed over his work with only a polite word, instead of effusive praise, he knew it for sure.

He'd lost his shine.

That was thief-parlance for having lost that glimmer that distracted people during card tricks and glossed over counterfeit goods. Without that innate belief in himself, he was as good as finished with the life. It happened to conmen all the time, this occupational hazard like a musician losing their hearing or a dancer developing arthritis. Neal shuddered in the middle of the museum, thinking of stories he'd heard of crooks whose fingers had grown too heavy to pick a pocket, and were thus condemned to some square job that required no imagination.

He was so shaken he couldn't even tell his best friend.

Mozzie did tend to catastrophize-either that or overwhelm with advice-and neither would help Neal get back in touch with his inner compass.

Neal was too smart to spend overly much time in museums, for fear of the record on his tracking anklet arousing Peter's suspicions about some imaginary heist, so he went to his other museum: the city streets. New York had gotten in his blood by now, and like any good city dweller, Neal felt calmed by the pulse of the city. With his pastel set in hand, he challenged himself to find the hidden colors within the variegated grays of the cement and the cloudy sky. The pigeons were his fail-safe: no two were alike, and they easily lent themselves to lightning-fast caricatures. His sketchbook held a Laurel & Hardy, a George H. W. Bush, a Judi Dench.

He rubbed the oily sticks between his fingers as if he were rolling in nostalgia for his vanished shine.

Claiming he was in an intensive refresher regimen he was able to avoid Mozzie, who was in one of his literary phases anyway. (Once a year or so, his master-criminal friend got the idea that his checkered past deserved a memoir, but he was terrified of any of his crimes getting traced back to him. Hilariously vague results always ensued). Neal began avoiding the museums with a sort of phobia, as if all the art in a finite world had already been made and he couldn't bear being confronted with the confirmation of this claustrophobic fact. In the galleries it was like being able to see the edge of his two-mile radius imposed by the FBI's tracker, and that was intolerable.

Work was easy because it was very seldom that someone came up with a truly innovative con for him to figure out, but Neal imagined that Peter and the others could see his lack of verve.

Three weeks went by and he'd forgotten the original cause of his misery was a birthday gift for Peter.

Neal was having an identity crisis, and he could only think of one way to find himself: to go back to the phase in his life in which art was something to make or to love, but not to copy or steal. He could remember exactly what painting first gave him that feeling like he was looking through a window into magic.

So Neal went to go visit it.

"You want what, exactly?" the butler asked in a bored tone.

Neal had already turned on the charm to get into this elegant Park Avenue foyer, no small feat when there was an intercom and a butler in between him and his goal.

The Rembrandt.

He'd been seventeen and just off the bus when he first saw it, a very small specimen lent from a private collection for a special exhibition at the Met.

The canvas, along with its owner, vanished from society some years ago. But of course Neal knew exactly where to find them. He could locate most major pieces of artwork in the world in short order.

"All I want to do is spend a little time with it," he said again in the luxurious foyer.

"Oh, do let him up already, Tomas," a voice came from a hidden speaker.

"Thank you," Neal flashed his best smile in what he judged was the same direction as the voice.

He was ushered through an impossibly huge flat, which, he was gratified to note, bore none of the ostentation that many uber-rich dwellings had. Priceless pieces mingled with mere antiques or found objects in tasteful combinations.

Finally, the butler gave a nod to a sitting room, and Neal entered. A handsome man looking to be around forty was smiling at him.

"How did you know I was even in the city?" the man asked.

"Prentiss Lloyd Scott spends his autumns in the city, unless he's in Cadiz, but he's there less than he says he is," Neal replied, holding out his hand. "Neal Caffrey. Sometime artist."

"Prentiss Scott, most-time recluse," the man returned, smiling. "Have some tea."

They talked of art, of New York, of various European cities, and again, Neal was pleased that it was actual conversation, and not name-dropping to prove how privileged or educated they were. It went on for about an enjoyable hour until the man leaned forward.

"You are, of course, welcome to 'spend time with' the Rembrandt, but just how many times should I allow you in before you attempt to steal something? Oh come now," he dismissed Neal's protest-for once, genuine. "A man of your age and aspect," he took in Neal's considerable charms openly, "can't be bought by a man of my age and inclination at this point. You do know both?"

"Even if I wasn't good at math I'd know you to be around fifty-five, and yes, I have heard that you prefer men," Neal said candidly.

"What do you think of the work?" Scott asked, turning his face this way and that.

"Some of the best I've ever seen," Neal began.

"In other words, an abomination to an artist such as yourself."

There was nothing for Neal to say. Looking at the man's artificially Kennedy-like features made his stomach churn, though he had taken care to hide the reaction.

Scott nodded again, as if he'd had the same conversation with himself every day for years. "You won't find a mirror or overly reflective surface in this mausoleum. I can't bear to look at myself, nor to be looked on, for the most part. Not by anyone who knew me before, at any rate."

"You really don't leave this apartment," Neal finally grasped. "Though if I had this many square meters of Manhattan to call my own, I might not feel like I was in prison." He lifted his pant leg delicately to reveal the tracking anklet.

"So you aren't even a good thief. I feel slightly less intimidated," Prentiss said, with what Neal figured to be his most human-like grin.

"I'm world-class, but even the best fall on hard times."

It was the right thing to say. Tomas was rung for. Liqueur was poured. The person underneath the careful sculpture of features seemed to thaw a little.

"From one cock-up to another, if you pardon the pun in my case," his host said, lifting his glass. "I truly won't mind if you steal a little something. Let's say, surprise me with something worth no more than $10,000." Again, he gave a practiced gesture. "We both know it won't really be a surprise, since homosexuals are the original patsies. All the way back to the first caveman who dreamed of love when he was dragged off by his fellow brute, who feigned amnesia afterwards."

Scott's bitterness took him off guard. "I'm sorry to surprise you, Mr. Scott, but I truly am interested in the Rembrandt. Well, even that is a means to an end. I need to find myself as an artist again, and somewhere in that painting is a seventeen-year-old me."

There was a pause in which Neal imagined he could feel his own frustrations beating next to the other man's like two butterflies.

"If you'd rather not steal, then I have conditions," Prentiss Scott said, suddenly the businessman who'd turned his healthy trust fund into billions with his own talent. "I'd like to commission you to paint my portrait."

Inwardly, Neal groaned. He'd tried to do portraits of a few moneyed old dames who wanted an excuse to look at him, and any attempt to render artificially stretched features ended up ghastly. It was like the plastic surgery had broken the link that had existed between the real features and the soul.

"Consider it a test," Scott continued. "If you can breathe life into this," he prodded his own cheek, "You're truly a master. Come with me."

The man was leading him though a sophisticated security system and into the climate-controlled inner sanctum where his truly valuable art resided. But the part of Neal's mind that would normally be looking out for ways to break in was oddly silent.

Why would anyone have so much surgery that he hated his reflection? was what he was wondering. He stole a glance at his host—most people weren't observant enough to see that his face wasn't a face, but an idea of a face.

Prentiss Scott sustained his gaze in that way he had, as if everything was predicted.

"My lover at the time, about seven years ago, was much younger than I. We were happy, I believe. Yes, I truly believe we were. I developed a slight ptosis in one eyelid, and it was drooping enough that it was obstructing my vision, so I consulted a plastic surgeon."

They were standing before a Picasso Neal had only seen in books, and all he could do was stare at it for a moment. "And you decided to do a little more than that?" he ventured, because he sensed something was expected of him.

"It was to be just my eyes, the crow's feet. Who could blame me? It was Tim who convinced me to plan on a little more, and then a little more, with the idea that people would stop looking at him as a gold-digger if we seemed closer in age."

"And you both ended up regretting it," Neal surmised before a small Rodin sculpture.

"Tim said he never knew what I was thinking, that he felt like I was always lying to him because my expressions weren't the same. We grew apart. I started to sense a coolness, a distance between me and other people that hadn't existed before the radical surgery. Gradually I stopped going out."

Neal forgot to say something noncommittal. It was the Rembrandt before him. That luminous quality had him by the throat again, just as it did when he was seventeen. "I can do it, I know it," he heard himself saying.

"Oh good. When should I expect you back? I'll have whatever materials you require," Prentiss Scott said. "Just leave a list with Tomas."

Neal scribbled a list under the skeptical gaze of the butler, who looked at him as the pigeons had been looking at him recently: safe in an absurdity that Neal was unlikely to crack.

"Where were you while I was in the throes of writer's block?" Mozzie asked him tipsily when he got home.

"Pursuing spiritual ends," he replied.

Friends who would merely nod and pour him a glass of wine at such a statement were a rare and wonderful breed.

The unusual destination on his tracking log did not go unremarked by Peter.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Peter asked him with a disarming open-endedness.

Neal shrugged.

"Just tell me that the Prentiss Lloyd Scott, the billionaire art collector, isn't spending time with one of your aliases."

"I showed him the anklet. And by the way, butlers can usually be trusted to pick out the riff raff from a mile away."

"Had you pegged as a crook?" Peter grinned.

"From the intercom, don't ask me how," Neal laughed. Sometimes he felt really comfortable with his FBI friend.

"Well, I'd rather prevent a relapse than give you absolution afterwards, so let me know if you're feeling the urge to fall into sin," Peter went back to shuffling some files about some dry crime or other.

Sometimes Neal hated his keeper. You don't just dismiss an existential crisis like one more paper to file! Peter could be so heartless. The idea that all his angst was due to the desire to paint a genuine portrait of the two of them crept into his mind, and quickly turned to annoyance.

"Since you find me so predictable, you'll be able to find me when you need me," Neal retorted and went up to the roof. Maybe he'd find a pigeon that wasn't mocking him so he could sketch it.

"What did I say?" Peter asked to the empty air where his CI had been a moment ago.

Only much later, after hearing Diana's conversation with Neal over the audio feed, did Peter return to that moment of odd irritation on Neal's part. Was his collaborator involved with this fantastically wealthy openly gay man, and did he take Peter's comment to mean he thought it was a sin?

Damnation, thought Peter. He should have suspected that the pansexual Caffrey, with the ability to charm humans of all ages and persuasions, might bat for both teams. But Peter and Diana were extremely tight from way back. Everyone knew that he had been the first person she'd come out to at the bureau. He was going to be her best man at her wedding. There were no issues about sexuality with Peter Burke, straight shooter and all-around good guy.

Slightly hurt that Neal would think such a thing of him, Peter resolved to be more sensitive to his friend's needs. Something was up with Neal, and if he was nervous about how dating a man would affect his standing, he should know that Peter didn't care one way or the other.


	2. Chapter 2

Prentiss Scott walked into his secure viewing room with a shirt in his hands.

"I see you have been a busy in my absence," he said to the Neal with paint on his hands standing before a canvas with a frown on his face.

His guest turned around the picture he'd been working on, revealing a couple of circles and lines. "Busy doesn't necessarily equal productive," Neal said miserably.

"Well, at least your sartorial exploits seem to have been more successful," Prentiss said, brandishing the shirt. "And there's no way you could have entered my dressing room without Tomas giving youu safe conduct into his domain. Though I must say: gray with a lavender stripe is a bit daring for him. He likes the classics."

Neal laughed. "We did finally bond over clothes. I'm sure that he counted everything after I left, but we had a very entertaining conversation about the correct placement of pleats. And we both agreed this would suit you."

"I'd trust Tomas' recommendations about clothing and most other things any day," Prentiss said, draping the shirt over an abstract sculpture and settling himself in a chair. "He's dressed far better men than I. And what makes him such a good butler is that he understands that what I really require is someone to keep me from slipping below a certain standard." The billionaire twisted his mouth.

He pressed the discreet metal device clipped to one of his shirt buttons. "Tomas? Bring us tea and sandwiches. We'll eat with the Rembrandt, please."

The would-be artist sat down gratefully at the table in the viewing room. "I've been eating here quite a bit myself. I hope you don't mind."

Scott smiled. "From what I understand, you slept here the last two nights while I've been away. Don't worry—I don't mind at all. I'd never do anything to get between an artist and his inspiration."

The butler wheeled in a cart and the older man and younger man exchanged a humorous glance at the outright suspicion Tomas still displayed for the new fixture in the room holding his employer's most valuable art.

Neal bit into one of the sandwiches that regularly appeared with the butler, who carried all the delicious things made by some unseen cook or cooks in that huge apartment. He knew better than to ask exactly where his host had been. There were many lines that the ex-con sensed from the beginning he should not cross with Prentiss Scott. So far, he'd been adept at avoiding them. They talked about their usual subjects, which were always a pleasurable mix: a lot about art, but their conversation ranged across several topics for over an hour.

Suddenly Scott froze with his hand on the teapot. "That's really quite amazing," he said with real admiration in his voice.

Neal grinned. "I knew I couldn't fool you for long. I'm actually really surprised it took you an hour to realize that the Rembrandt was a forgery. I owe Tomas fifty bucks."

"And it's a cunning one, at that," Scott continued, still scrutinizing the painting.

"How did you know?" Neal asked. "Paitina was wrong?"

Prentiss shook his head. "I suddenly had the oddest sensation, that's all. Externally it's perfect. You're an even better criminal than I imagined." He cast a glance that was anything but perturbed. "But it's as if someone that I know well and see every day like Tomas, as if an identical twin of his appeared out of nowhere and was going about his duties for some time before I realized that the insides weren't right. Yes, I have a gift for sensing the interior of things, much like you." He directed one of his penetrating looks at Neal's eyes. "Now really, should I be afraid that you're not systematically substituting your masterpieces for my masterpieces?"

"I never carry anything in or out of your apartment, Prentiss," Neal protested, opening his hands in a frank gesture. "Except this," he pointed at the palm-sized sketchbook he used to ferry his ideas back and forth from the Park Avenue mansion. "And I'm positive that Tomas manages to leaf through that for contraband every time I'm here."

"I noticed you carry nothing. I notice everything," Scott said.

"Not much gets by me either," Neal risked. "This tea is different than usual. In fact, it's not commonly available in the States. You were in Asia, Singapore, I'd guess. I know you have a business there and the flight that I took on my one visit was actually very comfortable in first class, which would explain why you don't seem tired after such a long journey. " He waited to see if his observations would be taken as an imposition by this extremely private man he'd been spending so much time with for a couple of months now.

Prentiss laughed. "Yes, I went to Singapore, as I sometimes must to give a face to all of my holdings," he said, making the grimace Neal now expected whenever his physical aspect came up. "Prentiss Lloyd Scott isn't to be trifled with, and sometimes he needs someone to remind his employees of that. Otherwise there's so many of them scattered across the globe they'd all be helping themselves to the till."

In the new opening between them Neal observed, "It always does surprise me to hear you refer to yourself in the third person."

"Don't worry, it's not my version of the royal we. For the past several years Tomas and I have been playing with this Lloyd Scott fellow as if he were a Ken doll. An immaculately dressed, financial genius Ken doll. 'What would Prentiss Scott be doing this time of year?' we ask ourselves. And then we plot the bare minimum of social appearances to avoid rumors of my own death. As you know, it's thankfully very easy to conduct business from one's home and thus I have the luxury of trading shares while sitting underneath a Rembrandt of questionable provenance in excellent company."

"You're an attractive man." Neal began saying what he'd wanted to express all this time. "There's really no reason to stay inside unless you want to."

"You haven't met Prentiss Lloyd Scott," the older man said with quiet force. Then he pressed his wireless intercom to call the butler. "Tomas, bring us something wonderful from the wine cellar. No, no," he reacted to the voice in the hidden ear piece, "I think we need a nice, rich red to feed the blood. Wouldn't you say?" he asked in his normal voice of the painter at his table.

"Sounds great," Neal replied with his best smile.

The wine arrived and for a moment Neal was distracted by the velvety treasure he held in his mouth. "I'm not sure which part of me this is feeding but it's a meal in itself. Thank you, thank you for everything," he said.

"However, I am quite confident that you will be able to find him," Prentiss said, continuing his earlier thought. "I'm quite anxious to see this Scott follow after so long, and you're just the man for the job." He held up his glass.

"I'm not sure why you have faith in the person who's been painting the same canavas over and over for two months," Neal observed. "It's not that I can't sense what needs to be on the canvas. I feel it inside. But I can't make it rise to the surface and come out. This is one of the worst feelings I've never had." He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair.

"Your unfamiliarity with impotence is noted," Scott said with a playful smile. They shared a naughty laugh. "But I just had an inspiration of my own. Have you ever heard about Edwin Henry Landseer and his unusual ability? We're not talking a sexual gift."

"I know him to be an English painter and not very interesting at that," Neal answered. "What's this special talent of his?"

"He could paint two different pictures—o ne with each of his hands at the same time. Apparently he was quite a phenomenon in this sense. Though, as you say, probably neither of the canvases was very compelling."

Neal shook his head. "I'm having trouble with one painting."

"No, I believe there's something to it," the older man leaned forward. "Supposedly, your dominant hand engages one part of your brain and the other hand accesses something else—your subconscious, perhaps. They do these sort of exercises for people with brain injuries or to study of how memory works," he continued. "It's a proven fact that doing two tasks simultaneously makes them come out differently."

Neal sat up excitedly "I see whiat you're getting at. While I'm trying and failing to paint the portrait in my head, my other hand might have something interesting to say about it in a different way. Let's try it."

Scott called for another easel and canvas and then sat down in a chair in front of the painter. "I think I'd make a fine specimen for one of your hands," he declared, "while you go about your business with the other."

With the wit and kindness Neal so often found within this enigmatic host of his, Prentiss distracted Neal from what either of his hands was doing by talking about Singapore and some of the more amusing people he dealt with at his business.

"Tomas packed my lucky shirt and jacket, so there's no way anything could have gone wrong," he said. "The hardworking international playboy always makes a good impression."

Neal set down both of the brushes he'd been struggling with. " I don't really think it matters what you wear to these engagements. You could probably show up in a sack—it's the force of your personality that gets things done."

"Am I such an ogre?" Prentiss asked, half in jest. "That must be why a telephone call is enough to keep most of them in line most of the year."

"No, I mean, it's your style —I admire it," Neal said a sudden urgency. "Prentiss, look around you. This apartment is amazing and it doesn't have to be. It could be a mausoleum worth millions. You have this wonderful way of putting things together, and I'm sure that that translates to your business as well. You have taste in what ever realm choose to enter. I wish I still did." He finished on a bitter note and looked tentatively over at the man that might be becoming his friend.

"I'll remember that," Prentiss said softly. "That was quite an homage. So if you think you know me so well, then put that Prentiss down with paint. I'm not sure he's still there anymore, but if he is, I miss him.'

Neal switched what he had been doing with the two brushes, and began trying to paint his host with his dominant hand. He suddenly wanted so much to be able to show his host how he saw Prentiss Lloyd Scott as one and the same with the man sitting in front of him, united with some inner thread to his own character he'd somehow dropped. His art had never done anything so meaningful as help heal someone, and he felt that if he painted Scott just right, he might be able to help Prentiss break out of the strange disconnect that existed between the man and his reflection.

The forger trying to be an artist painted and Prentiss sat with him, existing together in a companionable silence for the rest of the evening.

"So he took a little vacation—to Prentiss Scott's apartment," Jones said. "Add another factoid to your Wikipedia entry on Neal Caffrey and call it a day, boss."

Everyone on their team had noticed Peter's abstaction during the two-day leave their confidential informant asked for for the first time in the years he'd been working with the FBI.

Diana chuckled mischievously. "If I didn't know any better, I think that you were so concerned about Neal's habits for a different reason. Jealousy, perhaps?"

Peter held up his hand. "No, Diana you're right." A querying glance when around the table. "This is about my concern for Neal. My instincts aren't telling me that he's going to commit a crime; they're telling me he's in danger for some reason."

He furrowed his brow while he tried to pinpoint what his famed instincts were telling him. "How much do we know about this Prentiss Lloyd Scott?"


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you know about Prentiss Scott?" Peter asked Mozzie from the park bench at their signaled meeting place.

"Financially? He's clean, as far as I know. Runs his businesses himself, unlike most people of his class—he has so many holdings he must work like an animal."

"FBI intelligence told me that pretty easily," Peters said dryly.

Mozzie nodded and threw a sunflower seed at a pigeon. "You want the margin notes. He has a small but high-stakes interest in art and rare artifacts. The art is legal, the artifacts maybe slightly marginal. Though I can't imagine how he convinces people to sell him pieces like a Rembrandt or a Picasso that belonged to Gertrude Stein and has never hung in a museum."

"How do you think he does it?" Peter pursued.

"I don't know. People seemed to genuinely like the guy before he dropped off the grid. Hey, you, calm down, there's enough for everybody," he admonished a squirrel dashing for a seed.

"We're thinking an illness he doesn't want to be made public, either because it would weaken his business standing or he is too debilitated to go out," the FBI agent said, sharing the suppositions that were the only result of a surprisingly fruitless investigation.

"I can't help you there right off the bat," Mozzie spread out his small hands. "Neal's the one who gets inside people's heads better than I do, and he's the one you're investigating, I suppose. I can tell you right off, Suit, he's not in con mode."

"I agree with you," Peter said.

Mozzie looked at him sharply. "Then—you're investigating Prentiss Lloyd Scott, the last of the self-made billionaires and noted philanthropist? You name the good cause, there's a fund with his name on it." He leaned over. "Did you know the primate wing at the Bronx zoo is the Prentiss Lloyd Scott primate wing? Those are probably the most comfortable bonobo chimps outside of the Goodall Institute, and I hear he and Jane are friends."

Mozzie evidently had placed Scott in his "save the world" compartment rather than "filthy rich potential mark" mental category.

"Mozzie, focus. He's a good guy – I get that. Maybe a little too good?" the agent suggested.

It took little to engage Mozzie's penchant for conspiracy theories.

"I never thought of him that way," the thief said with interest. "But again, he's from Neal's world, well, his sometimes-world. I don't hobnob with the upper crust so much. You want me to ask my contacts?"

"Yes, I do," the FBI agent said with difficulty, knowing that such a request often meant biting off more than he could chew. "No B & E, nothing –"

"Nothing illegal," Mozzie finished in a bored tone. "But I have to tell you, Neal's in some artist phase right now. I'm sure he's just going over there to cozy up to that Picasso or one of Scott's other works of art. That's what Neal tells me he's been doing, and he comes home smelling of turpentine and then sketches in his book for hours when he's not looking at things with his artist eyes."

He scattered another handful of seeds. "Neal did this exact same thing in Barcelona when he got into Gaudi. It was like he was in a trance. He's not in a place to be the inside man for investigating Prentiss Lloyd Scott." His tone softened. "Give him this, Suit. He's not breaking any rules and Neal needs to create."

Peter shook his head. "I can't put my finger on it, Moz. Maybe I'm going crazy, but my instincts–"

"Make the blood of the average crook run cold at the mere mention," Mozzie finished theatrically but with a sincere shudder. "Fine, I'm along for the ride as long as you keep your instincts away from me."

Peter looked at him piercingly.

"Stop that, I tell you!" the small man recoiled.

"Does Neal like men?" Peter asked suddenly.

He was gratified to see that, true to form, Mozzie was not surprised by anything. "No idea."

"How can you not know?" Pierre protested. "You guys are so close it's like you're talking in your own language when you're together."

"You misunderstand a friendship between criminals. We still live by Don't Ask Don't Tell—not just about this subject, but about everything, especially anything personal. Thieves tend to have a private place locked away that is at the center of everything they do. Sometimes they've lost it and are trying to find it, or maybe they do heists because they want to arrange to be in that place forever."

"Like your island getaway," Peter supplied.

"Yes, actually. So maybe I do have the answer to your question about Neal's preferences."

The FBI agent started on his bench. This wasn't in the file. "Something happened on the island?"

"Other than his usual beautiful women, no, I don't think so." Mozzie chuckled and then his face became serious. "Neal and I share something, but it isn't always personal information. We both want a home. That's our Holy Grail."

"Because you grew up in an orphanage and he grew up in Witness Protection," Peter leaned back, relieved that his Caffrey file wasn't missing something crucial. "I've never been able to grasp why the bond between the two of you was so strong."

"Lots of men who grew up without a father or without a home probably share a similar thing, but for those of us who grew up in the system, we have a name for this bond. It happens when you find in another person – someone anyone of any age—who gives you that personal sense in an impersonal institution. We called them Homers."

The small criminal chuckled and ate a few sunflower seeds himself. "I've seen guys defend this person in their life more violently than prize possessions or girlfriends. The Homer can remind them of their birth-sibling, or maybe it's the person who trades to give them an extra dessert or defends them when they have nightmares and wake up crying."

"Do these 'Homers' tend to be … sexual partners?" Peter asked delicately.

Again Mozzie was unperturbed. "No, actually. Never, that I know of. You see, it would be all wrong, mixing home in with sex. And believe me, I have seen all sorts of things in the orphanage—"

Peter interrupted him hastily. "So if Neal is spending a lot of time with Prentiss Lloyd Scott, does this mean the he's a Homer for Neal in some way?"

"You thought Neal was sleeping with him?" Mozzie finally understood, and then reflected for a moment and a crafty glimmer flitted into his eyes. "Actually, it is possible under certain circumstances. In prison, two Homers can become partners, but they both have to find that same thing in each other. I hear these partnerships tend to be very strong."

Peter paled. He never wanted to ask Neal how he got through prison, in that sense.

Mozzie laughed lightly. "Oh, Neal was someone's Homer in prison, all right. He never told you?"

Peters eyebrows inched up his forehead as if of their own accord.

Mozzie continued deadpan, "A 6' 5", 350-pound functionally illiterate dyslexic with three counts of homicide must be his type – not billionaire art collectors."

"What a relief," Peters said uncertainly.

"I don't know his real name. He goes by Gator because he's from the Everglades. In prison, so I've heard, a lifer automatically has first choice, shall we say," Mozzie said delicately. "And he was one of the leaders at the maxiumum-security facility – by all accounts quite a terrifying man. Gator fixed on Neal first thing, called dibs and everyone else had to be hands off."

Mozzie took in Peter's rapt attention. "Looking the way Neal does, you can imagine there were some – disappointments. I believe several of Neal's would-be suitors met with accidents until the hands-off message stuck." He turned to face Peter, all joking aside. "Somehow this hardened killer was able to see what a rare and wonderful person Neal is, what we see in him." He gestured to the FBI agent at the adjacent bench.

Peter felt odd at being lumped in that group.

"And that this person must not be harmed by the prison experience. Gator took Neal under his wing."

"So this is like a 6' 5" murderous June?" Peter grasped, seeing the same protector qualities in Neal's generous landlady.

"Exactly. He protected Neal even from himself. All Neal had to do was talk with him in that way he has – when he makes you feel –"

"Like you're the only person in the world for that moment. Like you're in the middle of this warm, bright spotlight. Yes I know," Peter said.

Mozzie looked curious for a moment. Then he continued, "Gator still writes to Neal at one of his PO boxes. When I say 'writes,' I use the term loosely. Neal and I have a game where we act out what we think these letter say over a glass of wine."

Neal's best friend then said more seriously, "He's made me promise that Gator will get presnts on Christmas, his birthday, and his D-Day -that's what they call the day the doors close on you forever, D meaning Death-as long as the big man lives, should something happen to Neal. If he has a will somewhere, I'm sure it says the same."

Peter expelled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Well, that's quite a story. There's so much I don't know about Neal," he said with a twinge of jealousy.

"Maybe you should ask him sometime, instead of me," Mozzie suggested with a smile around his lips. "He's pretty close-mouthed about these things, but I always assumed that you and Elizabeth were like a two-person Homer for him."

"Oh." Peter forgot the concern that had brought him to the park for a moment. "That's really nice. If I could explain the whole thing to Elizabeth in a story without the prison bitch subtext, I'm sure she would be touched as well."

Mozzie shook out the rest of the seeds for the pigeons. "if Neal is dating this guy, he'll say sooner or later. You know how he's about love—no apologies. But I don't get why that would be a big deal. Believe me, he's dated much shadier ladies who do not care about the plight of the bonobo chimp."

"I know Elizabeth told you that I did a background check on her when we started dating," Peter said sheepishly. "So you know I'm not above doing that for potential partners of my friends as well."

"You did it for Suzette!" Mozzie exclaimed.

"Of course, Diana is like family. So is Neal," Peter said. "They're people I want to keep safe."

Peter got to his feet with the usual sensation after a meeting with Mozzie—full of too much information, suspecting half of it wasn't true and the other half either censored or seen through a paranoid lens. Still, nothing he'd learned helped him shake the feeling that Neal was somehow getting in too deep with the wrong guy.


	4. Chapter 4

"I haven't seen you for a couple of days," Prentiss Scott said, looking up from his desk. "They must be keeping you busy at the FBI. Have a seat," he gestured to one of the paper covered chairs. "Just put that anywhere, it doesn't matter."

Neal sat down in the office he'd not dared to go to before now. In fact, Tomas the butler had deliberately misled him about the location previously, but today the billionaire had ordered that his guest be received in the business wing of the mansion.

"Yeah, this was a tough one, right down to the wire," Neal said of the jewel thieves they'd busted after first Neal and then Peter was held hostage by some very smelly Bulgarians with an affinity for knives. He was careful not to share anything important about his cases. This discretion, which had always stood him well in his life, probably did a lot to assure Prentiss that he wasn't going to divulge anything that they talked about, either.

A smile played around the businessman's lips. "I know we have an accord not to speak of our respective callings, but I've been dying to know—do you change before you come here or are you one of those people who repels dirt?"

Neal laughed. "I don't change, usually. Sometimes I get dirty. A few weeks ago, this bastard stockbroker ripped the sleeve of one of my favorite jackets I still have from Savile Row."

"The black one with the thread?" Prentiss put in.

"Yes, a real work of art. I have someone in Chinatown, he's a master at reweaving so that you'd never know there was a rip. But in a pinch, I've done it myself," Neal said. "Being a forger is kind of like being a tailor. You have to know how to produce the right effect on people. The clothes make the man, and can forge someone into something impressive for awhile, even when the man isn't anything to speak of."

"I've often wondered, " his host said softly, "Whether being a very beautiful man, like you, is to wear a mask, like me."

Neal had learned to go with it when Scott started to push his thoughts in an unaccustomed direction. He ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe that's why I became a con man. When people like what they immediately see, they don't tend to look much farther than that. Ever since I became a prize for people to win, it's been easy to win something for myself."

All of the things that were missing from Neal's life that he usually pushed away – freedom, a home, love — seemed to come bubbling up to the surface so often when he talked with Prentiss. He sat there in one of those moments in which they were saying something almost audible to each other without saying a word: "It's so good to be lonely with someone else," was the sentiment uniting the two men.

"Might this have something to do with the painting that you keep beginning over and over again? It must be very important."

Neal finally shared with his host the goal he was trying to achieve in his Rembrandt room. "Elizabeth, that's the wife of Peter, my supervisor, commissioned me to paint a portrait for his birthday. For some reason it's taking everything I have—more than everything I have—to do it. You saw my forgery. I have the skills."

"I'm not sure you're lacking in anything," Scott said.

Neal got up and started pacing. "When it comes down to it, Peter's the biggest con of all. He's got this Dudley Do-right exterior—he practically throttles you with the steady vibe of 'I'm going to take you down,'" he said the last phrase in a resonant voice, "And then underneath it all he's a live wire."

"Unpredictable?" Scott supplied.

"Exactly. He's got a mask, too, and I don't know what's underneath it." Neal was surprised by the urgency in his own voice.

"Maybe this is why the portrait is so hard – not because you've lost your skills."

"if I have to crack the mystery of Peter Burke in order to paint him, I think Elizabeth is going have to buy a tie this year instead," Neal sighed.

Scott swiveled his chair away from his desk and towards Neal. "Listen. You just told me about two men who are hiding something—maybe from themselves. Perhaps you need to look elsewhere than my viewing room for your answer."

Neal looked around quickly, thinking that this gentle dismissal must have been the reason for his being summoned to Prentiss' private office. "I've basically set up camp there, haven't I? Maybe I should go back to watching the city and sketching pigeons."

"That sounds so grim and Dickensian," the older man chuckled. "I'm not trying to drive you out to make portraits of feathered vermin."

"No," Neal said excitedly, "They're not grim at all. I'll bring my big sketchbook next time. I have an Elton John pigeon that'll just slay you."

"I've actually met him—he's a frightful bore. I'd buy something like that in a minute and hang it in the breakfast nook," Scott said, enthused.

"You have a breakfast nook?" Neal could hardly believe that there was more to the mansion then he'd seen so far.

"I never go there. You know the ritual of breakfast has no meaning for someone who lives in three time zones at any given moment. I slurp down whenever vile health shake Tomas has concocted with the help of one of the more sadistic cooks while sitting in my office at whatever hour."

He clapped his hands. "But I like to picture your Elton, plucky as a pigeon, hanging there, waiting for a brunch that never comes. Tomas has already taken over part of it with his fussy ceramics that I won't allow elsewhere in the house. Come to think of it, we've both taken to relegating things we don't like to the breakfast nook and sometimes rescuing them from such a fate as well—it's a space for passive-aggressiveness to run free."

"You and Tomas have the strangest relationship," Neal observed, wondering how huge this 'nook' could be. "How long has he worked for you?"

"Ten years. Even before my transformation," his fingers made a small movement towards his face, "I enjoyed him bringing out the bitch in me, which at that time was otherwise dormant. I was a real workhorse, and very engaged in social causes. Tomas' barbed comments about all and sundry made me remember the absurdity of life – a lesson I have now assimilated all too well."

"He's like a pit bull with an extensive knowledge of Ming Dynasty ceramics. Pardon me for asking, but why is he a butler? He could be anything," Neal said. "He could be me – or probably even you."

"It is a bit of a puzzle. Tomas had no capital to begin with, unlike my inheritance or your good looks, but I recognized the diamond-hard jewel that he is and pay him accordingly. And he is now wealthy in his own right, thanks to his skill with investments. I think he enjoys working from the inside of life, or perhaps dealing with other's lives. It's the maitre d' syndrome—it really doesn't matter to such a person who gets the prime table, but they relish exerting that authority all the same. Some people really prefer administering power while staying invisible." The sentence ended on a falling note.

"You are not invisible to me, Prentiss. You're the patron every artist needs, and I see the effects that you're having on me," Neal said warmly.

"And what effect is that?" Prentiss asked, pushing the plate of sushi that he hadn't had time to eat towards his guest on its own little chilled table.

"You're trying to do exactly what you described; you're engaging my non-dominant hand or brain hemisphere or something. Every time we talk or you leave one of your art books open to a certain page for me, it's not about my completely fruitless frontal assault on my portrait – portraits," he amended.

"The frontal assault has never been my favorite maneuver, nor, do I suspect, is it yours," Prentiss Scott said with his usual calm.

Neal's dazzling smile proved equal to the well-hidden double entendre. "This eel is excellent, are you sure you aren't having some?"

"I've got something for you, boss," Jones said at the bar that had become their hangout. It was an after-hours hobby for the three of them—chasing down some dark spot on Prentiss Lloyd Scott's record.

Or, in Diana and Jones's case, trying to mollify their boss' concerns that they saw clearly through his usual jocular efficiency with Neal at work.

"What've you got?" asked a weary Peter. He disliked the sensation of two parts of him traveling in different directions. One was focused on the cases, business as usual, and the other, insistently sounding an alarm he couldn't locate.

"Scott was seeing someone right before he became a recluse. Promising young fashion designer by the name of Timothy Ben-Israel. Israeli-born, but grew up in Poughkeepsie."

"Oh I remember," Diana jumped in. "A lot younger than Scott, but they were quite the it couple in the gay community for a while."

"So, Prentiss cut all the relationships in his life at that time, including this one," Peter said.

"Maybe there's more to this relationship, boss. See, Ben-Israel went to go live in Utah, changed his name in everything. As far as I can tell, he runs a clothing store selling off- the-rack stuff, probably things he would have looked down upon just a few years ago."

Peter shrugged. "It was a hard breakup."

"I see which are getting at," Diana said. " Utah—not so gay-friendly."

"I don't think that I want to move to most communities in that state." Jones agreed. "He might be the only gay Jew for miles. Why voluntarily go someplace where you're the only person like you?"

"Maybe he had no family and saw there was a market."

"His parents are still in Poughkeepsie. He has lots of cousins in the Northeast and in Israel."

"This fits in with one of our theories," Dana pointed out. "It could be that Scott lost it after testing HIV positive and his partner did the same. People are shattered by news like that and sometimes withdraw like these two guys did. I've had friends—"

"Well, I have a relative who was diagnosed a few years back," Jones replied, "And he did just the opposite. He moved closer to family, joined every support group he could find, he even took up golf. There's an urge to connect so you have people to fall back on."

"You're right. Why change his name? He wasn't that famous, and you know these high-class circles forget last year's news pretty fast," Diana said.

Peter was staring into space.

"How are those instincts, boss?" Diana ventured.

"I think this might be the right avenue," he affirmed. "We have to look deeper into Scott's relationships. Jones, find out if this is a pattern – if anyone else in Prentiss Lloyd Scott's world also suffered a similar crisis. Di, you find out why the 'it boy' of New York's scene would exile himself from the gay community."

"And you?" Diana asked.

"I'm gonna make a call." Peter was already out of his chair.

Several nights later the group got together at their usual table. Jones was listing every relationship he'd been able to determine Loyd Scott had had in the last 20 years or so.

"Then there is this trusted executive in his UK office who was arrested for swindling money from the company. A cousin lost a teaching job when it got out what she likes to do in bed."

He slid something across the table to the other two, who raised their eyebrows and slid it back.

"The family man who was outed as gay. Actually, more than one. Artists or writers who for some reason had their stellar career fizzle out suddenly. The only violent crime, so to speak, I could find was this priest that he used to play chess with when visiting Rome."

The other two looked at Jones expectantly. "He lost his faith and committed suicide."

Jones sat back and made a frustrated noise. "I mean, look at this. There's this very private village near Cadiz where Scott still visits occasionally. The villagers love him; they call him Don Scott. And there's this fishmonger—actually more of a magnate in the food and restaurant industry in the area—his business was sunk when it was found out that the quality of his fish didn't meet health standards. Come on Peter, if you look at all the people in each of our lives within six degrees of separation, there'd be a helluva lot more tragedies."

"You're an FBI agent, not an international tycoon. Trouble follows us. But what I hear is trust. These are all inner circle people. Most of which he still sees after shutting himself off. Do we have travel records for him?"

"He has a private jet, of course," Jones said, "But he doesn't seem to use it much. Let me keep digging on that front."

"Diana?" The two men waited expectantly for her contribution.

In response she slid a DVD of the Godfather movie across the table. "I watched this movie so many times Suzette and I were talking in a Marlon Brando accent for a couple of days," she laughed. "It was worth it. I think this is the key."

"No way," Jones scoffed. "Are you telling me this gay mafia thing is real?"

Peter was already one step ahead. "An international business figure like Prentiss Scott at the center of a huge network, just like the Godfather, and he never has to get his hands dirty. He just makes someone in one part of his network take out someone from the other part. And for people of Scott's class, reputation is everything. They don't want to know what you've done so much as who you know."

"I know the mob," Jones said. "I know all the mobs – I worked on little Italy, Russian mob, the Japanese. These are all well-organized ethnic groups, some of them with a history longer than their current governments. No offense Di, I don't see the parallel to gay people."

"Everyone knows that in New York and LA, for example, several industries are run by a lot of gay talent," Diana said. "These are small worlds within big worlds. The way gossip travels is unreal, believe me."

She sat up suddenly. "Can you imagine being a fashion designer stuck out in Utah selling dresses to church ladies? It's like hell-some people say exile is the worst punishment. We don't know how he does it, we don't know why he does it, but this Scott guy may be some kind of very refined sadist."

Peter had been very quiet during this whole exchange. "I think I know what makes this guy tick."

"Planning on sharing with the class?" Jones prompted after a moment.

Diana shot him a look. "I'm sure Neal is safe. Who knows if they really see each other that much; you said yourself that guy's a workaholic. That mansion of his is so big—"

"I need to check on something. Thank you, both of you. This one's on me," Peters said sincerely and then threw some bills on the table and dashed off.

"Why did you give me that 'shut up or I'll use my martial arts skills on you' look?" Jones demanded. "We've been burning the midnight oil on this and I think we deserve to be in the loop."

"Peter hides it well, but I know he's beside himself about this for some reason. We have to make sure Neal is OK and then our boss will be OK again."

Both left wondering why they had come to accept this causal link without questioning over the past couple of years.

"Moz, tell me the additional criteria helped you find something," Peter sank down on the bench du jour.

"It did," the little man beamed. "And I think you'll like what I found. This fellow is here in New York."

"Here? You mean, he didn't get banished from his profession and his community?" Peter asked, wondering why there was this break in the pattern.

"Well, he assumed a new identity and became a Buddhist monk in Tibet." Peter frowned. "But he comes back here pretty often with his religious group, and still engages in his true profession of trading in antiquities under the table. He was in the outskirts of my extended thievery family, but it's sad to say that people drop off the grid all the time. Things are good for him now—he's able to exploit obscure treaties dealing with the provenance of items that really did belong to the religious group for centuries before things were carved up by modern rulers."

"So you're saying Scott doesn't know this man is in New York?"

"Who's to know that one guy with a shaved head in a maroon robe is actually an unreformed conman? It's brilliant."

"Can you arrange a meet up?"

Mozzie's attitude became more businesslike. "As his attorney, I would like you sign this list of conditions, including full immunity and no disclosure of his dual identity to anyone," he droned, producing a folder from his briefcase.

"Fine." Peter signed it.

"All right, you and a certain Buddhist monk have a date at the U.N. in" he checked his watch "45 minutes. Choedek Norbu will be the one with two knots in his robe. He's part of a delegation, so no fear of standing out while you talk. People are constantly having tête-à-têtes in the hallways."

"How do you know that?" Peter asked, accepting the piece of paper with Mozzie's coded assurances that their legal requests had been met.

"As a social activist I've –"

"Never mind. Thanks." The FBI agent turned to go and turned back. "So—Neal seems OK to you?"

"He doesn't spend a lot of time in the apartment anymore," Neal's friend said with a touch of sadness. "If this is a romance, and all signs point to yes, Neal is too absorbed to realize he needs to tell people what's going on."

"All the more reason to be sure," Peter said.

"I hope you're wrong, Suit, 'cause this idea of yours is hard for me to swallow and I believe almost every conspiracy theory you've heard of, and most of those you haven't, are actually real."

"It's all about getting inside someone's head, Haversham."

Peter rushed off to his meeting on the East Side.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter pushed his way through the buzzing hallways of the United Nations building looking for a spot of maroon. He turned a corner and was suddenly face to face with a dozen individuals wearing the signature maroon and saffron robes of a Tibetan monk. All of their faces were equally inscrutable, but when he said, "Choedek Norbu?" a ripple went through the group.

Tentatively, the FBI agent held up the piece of paper with Mozzie's encrypted legal assurances.

He noticed one monk moving his head slightly to the left, and then Peter saw the two knots in the sash of his robe.

Peter moved in the direction indicated. Only after he sat down on the bench that had opened up did he notice that the skin tone was similar to the other men's but the facial features were not exactly right for those of a person from Tibet. The illusion was further dispelled when the monk opened his mouth.

"You don't mind if I check the paperwork to see that everything is in order before we proceed?" a British accent asked.

Peter handed over the paper and waited for the man to check out the coded message from Mozzie. Then he looked up. "I'm glad that it's a Fed sitting there and not him," was the first thing that he said.

"And by him you mean Pre—"

"Don't say his name!" The monk looked around in a panic. "I only agreed to do this because Mozzie's best friend might be in danger."

Peter wondered again at the huge influence wielded by the small criminal. "He's a very good friend of mine as well," he said of Neal, and there must've been something in his voice because the monk started to talk.

"For a very long time, I thought I was just imagining it. Then that I was going crazy. That's the diabolical beauty of it—there is virtually no way to tell."

"Tell what?" Peter asked. "What does he do to people and why?"

"Maybe I should start of the beginning, or at least when I started to notice. I first knew something was terribly wrong with my life here in New York when I went to a hobby shop to get a refill on a certain ingredients that I use to—" he stopped and looked the FBI agent up and down.

"I'm not even on the clock," Peter said. "Please speak freely; all I care about is my friend, not any past or present infractions."

The monk nodded. "These ingredients I use in a proprietary recipe for a cloaking medium, something that helps mask stolen goods but comes off easily if you know how to remove it. It's a method that made my fortune as a trader of stolen goods."

The man warmed to his subject. "For a smuggler, everything comes down to shipping. The goods vary, but if you don't have a reliable means of getting things in, out and around the country under the radar, the biggest score in the world doesn't do you any good. My particular gift, if I may say so, was disguising objects to pass through certain forms of scrutiny." He shot another look at the FBI agent.

"I don't know how many ways to tell you that's not what I'm here for today."

The monk laughed. "OK, it's just a little strange to be on the same side as the law for a change. For a long time I thought it was you guys who were persecuting me. Until that day in the science shop. Over time I'd already built up an identity as a science teacher, so that they really thought that I taught at a private school, as did several other hobby shops in the greater New York area. Better than having my purchases tracked by mail, I thought. 0.

These ingredients are rather common, but it was difficult to get them in large quantities the way that I needed. But I had worked around all that over the last few years."

Norbu took a deep breath. "One day I went into a hobby shop and they said they didn't have any of my ingredients. The cashier greeted me by name and was most apologetic. Naturally, I went to another shop. And another. And another. I went to every hobby shop, every store that could conceivably sell the materials that I needed, in New York, Connecticut and New Jersey."

"So, maybe it was a supply issue somewhere down the line," Peter objected.

"That's what I thought as well," the false Tibetan agreed. "The next thing I did was order what I needed online. Now, I had had some problems previously with receiving deliveries, but everybody has a trouble in New York. Somebody steals a promising-looking package, or it's the wrong apartment number or they send it to the West Side instead of the East side."

Peter was nodding. "You know what I mean. That's why I didn't notice that I was actually having more problems than normal until every time I tried to order one of these particular items the order went awry."

"Awry how?" the FBI agent asked.

"Meaning I'd order this material, and get a pair of socks instead. Or a teapot or some other random thing that I hadn't ordered. Keep in mind that I had multiple redundancies set up so that no one knew what my proprietary blend was. But no matter which shipping method I tried—the U.S. Postal Service, FedEx, UPS—I could not order these particular items. Up to this point I was sure it was you Feds. Drug dealers who ship contraband or the ingredients for crystal meth have their deliveries interrupted all the time."

Peter chuckled. "I've personally tampered with many shipments, although usually we opt for subtlety rather than tipping our hand by sending socks."

"Exactly my point," the other man said. "You guys think that as long as you can make it difficult enough for us to move what we want to move that will have to find some other way or lose our customers. Supply and demand is what you care about.

"But I'm sure you're also aware that criminals have many off-the-radar ways of moving goods that don't have tracking numbers, don't abide by schedules and thus have little to no chance of being detected."

Peter shrugged. "An extra box on a truck full of legal goods, something moved inside a commuter train or hidden inside a rental car. Yes, we probably know most of the ways that you people have moved things across the continental U.S. and over borders."

The monk flashed a grin. "You probably can't even imagine all the things that have been tried. But imagine my surprise when one day I was receiving a shipment of Chippendale furniture from—well, it's neither here not there where I obtained it—and the delivery did not go by any official service. When I opened it up—it was full of worms."

Peter leaned forward. "Worms, as in earthworms?"

The man snorted. "I didn't trouble myself to find out what type of worms they were, but they were some species that eats clear through wood. The boxes were teeming with worms that had made the whole carefully planned delivery useless. I lost big."

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

"And that's why I began to think that I'd been wrong about being under legal surveillance because the Feds don't infiltrate illegal shipments, stuff them full of worms, close them up again and make sure they get to their destination."

"It sounds like something a creative criminal might do to a rival," Peter pointed out. "The old horse head in the bed like the Godfather."

Norbu nodded impatiently. "More things happened. The cafe where I used to sit and watch one of my couriers drop off messages, they rearranged the way their seating area was set up so that I didn't have a line of sight anymore." He spread out his hands. "These things happen, right? Restaurants change the furniture. But it got so that I couldn't find anyone who would be my courier after a while. People in the underworld began to mistrust me. No one wanted to trade with me, though of course no one said as much. There were simply no business opportunities. I couldn't get information about possible buyers, And even if I did hear of something, the logistics—my bread and butter—were now insurmountable."

"And ironically, the criminal world works on a sort of trust," Peter put in. "Once you're out of the loop, working alone is basically impossible. But again, we've isolated people just like that, when the Bureau needed to, though you're right, I've never heard of using worms."

"Finally I found myself finished, with nothing to buy, nothing to sell. It's a pity to burn out a town, but it happens, so I decided to leave New York."

"So where does – he – fit into all of this?" Peter asked. "Not only is the underworld not his world, but you're the only criminal I know of to have reached his inner circle."

The monk raised his eyebrow. "My friend is not actively in the life anymore," Peter snapped. "Unless you know different?" he asked nervously.

"I keep my nose down, or rather, up in the mountains of Tibet, these days, but as far as I know, your friend may very well have retired." The other man's voice took on a note of urgency. "But that's not the operative factor, you see, I don't think it's about what you do so much as who you are."

"How did you meet the man in question?" Peter pursued.

The monk gave a nostalgic little laugh. "He was a mark. I heard about all this wealth, this unbelievable art collection, and I thought there must be away for me to bite off a little bit for myself. He let me in, made me within five minutes and still let me stay for this fabulous tea. And he invited me back the next day."

"It seems odd that it's that easy to get in with a billionaire," Peter observed.

The monk shrugged. "Time went by, and I forgot about stealing anything, because then there'd be an end to the delicious lunches, the fine wine. He was so thoughtful—I would come over and there was some book he had 'found' in his huge library, a rare edition by an author he knew I liked, or my favorite type of olives waiting for me next to my chosen cocktail. And then there was the entertaining conversation, and meeting people that I never thought I would ever meet. He filled needs I didn't even know I have."

i

The FBI agent's brow furrowed. "You're saying that he had other people over besides you?"

"Yes, I didn't know that he was considered a recluse at the time. I simply thought he lived in perfect comfort and there was always something to do in that mansion. He would have these small dinner parties with—you wouldn't believe me if I told you," Norbu broke off.

"Like who?" Peter asked curiously.

"The sitting prime minister of a certain Scandinavian country. A Russian prima ballerina. A stock-car driver. A world-famous comedian. This fellow has a way of putting things together, whether it's the menu for a luncheon, or just the right wine for fish, or the people at a party." The man laughed and adjusted his robe. "It's a level of class I could never hope to obtain."

"So you never stole anything?" Peter thought this was important to ascertain.

"No, I honestly thought we were friends. Well, to be fair, maybe I kept it as a backup plan. Or thought I'd steal something someday just as a lark, more like, because he would feel cheated at that point if I didn't."

"Did you have any indication that he was sick?" Peter asked, remembering their prime theory.

"Sick? I doubt that. He let me use his gymnasium a few times, and the weights were set to some ungodly level. It's possible," Norbu shrugged. "But the man fairly exuded life, as I remember."

Pieter looked frustrated. "This all seems like much ado about nothing, if you ask me."

"Except you went to a lot of trouble to track down a reincarnated criminal, and thus must know that there's something to it," the man pointed out.

The words Peter tried to choke down all the time came rushing out. "It's like an ice cold, clammy sensation—"

"Exactly!" The monk clapped his hands. "It crept up on me over the space of almost a year. To escape it I gathered my meager savings and slipped off to Frankfurt, to begin a new life. We recreate ourselves from time to time, my kind of person, so it wasn't totally unexpected. But usually I would have some sort of gig waiting for me. A contact. Something. Unfortunately, I had to go to a new city blind."

"You're not German?" Peter had been trying to place the man's features all this time.

"No, my father was English, and my mother, Turkish. I spent the first several years of my life in Turkey, and the first time I came to Europe it was to Frankfurt."

"Not a bad city for a smuggler," the FBI agent observed.

"No it's not. And I do know some German. But for some reason it was very, very hard to make contact with anyone in the city. I went so far is to rely upon an old trick. I placed an ad with a certain coded message in all the local newspapers. It was something pre-internet criminals used to do to reach out to each other. I waited a week no one responded."

Peter opened his mouth.

"At that time I thought perhaps it was truly an outdated custom," the would-be monk agreed. "So I went to the place where I knew I could find some underworld individuals: the railway station." He noted Peter's nod. "It's a perfect place to pick someone's pocket, as I'm sure you are aware. It's also a place where people move items. Where they buy contraband. In short, it's every major city's Mecca for the criminal element."

Peter was getting impatient, but forced himself to let the speaker get to the point.

"For me it's easy to pick out each of these activities in any given crowd. I saw all the people picking pockets or selling drugs. I saw the suitcases changing hand over hand containing God knows what inside. But even when I walked around with several euros sticking out of my pocket, no one picked my pocket. I dropped the euros on the floor but not one of the two dozen criminals in the vicinity would touch my money. Finally, a small boy of about six picked it up."

Norbu leaned towards Peter. "That's when I knew. That's when I knew that whatever kind of bad luck that had been assailing me in New York City had followed me there to Frankfurt. But I still couldn't understand how. I walked around the city, racking my brain. Nobody knew I was going. No one even knew that any connection to Frankfurt at all. I said goodbye to no one before I left."

"So then—" Peter began, but the man waved him off.

"It was a rather chilly day but I bought an ice cream so I had an excuse to sit on a park bench and stare off into space while I thought. And that's when it struck me. I'd told the story of my first visit to Frankfurt to the man in question. It was a warm spring day, and my parents bought me a yellow balloon. And together, hand in hand, we walked across the Eiserner Steg."

Peter looked blank. "The iron bridge from one site if the city to the other across the Main river," the fake Tibetan explained. "To a small child, seeing all of those people walking back and forth, back and forth across the bridge-I'd never seen anything like it. And even when we continued on the train to France I held onto the yellow balloon for as long as I could, and I cried when it burst. That was when I vowed to go back to Frankfurt some day. If there had been a balloon seller that gloomy day while I sat in the park, I would have bought one of those rather than an ice cream."

The monk registered his listener's impatience. "It probably sounds like nothing to you, but that's the wonderful thing about – that man—he understands these things. He understands a beautiful moment the way he grasps why a certain type of pastry from one shop in the city has a quality nothing else has." The man searched for the right words. "He knows the value of things. And he knows how to help you find these memories and those tastes as well, hidden in your memory, as I believe I told him my story about Frankfurt after he told me about his first visit to Rome as a child."

Peter went completely still. That was actually useful information. He filed it away in the place where he'd been storing his half-formed plan.

"Sitting there on the park bench with a melting ice cream in my hand, I began to cry," the man was saying. "A grown man, a hardened criminal, respected in the underworld for never having gotten caught—I was crying. Because it all started to make sense. Only someone as fantastically wealthy and well-connected as– that man—could pull off all of these small and large ways in which my life became intolerable in New York City. And he's everywhere. He —or someone he knows—is in almost every city on the globe."

Peter pointed at the maroon robe and the man held up a finger and grinned.

"I was sobbing like a child, with sticky fingers from the ice cream that was melting as if by power of my own panic, when all of a sudden I look up. Sitting in the bench across from me is a little monk smiling at me. He just smiled and smiled, and eventually I took heart and went to sit next to him.

"'Everything is sorrow,' he said to me in English. I didn't know then, but that's the First Noble Truth of Buddhism. All I knew was, it exactly summed up how I felt, and I sobbed even louder. The man offered me a handkerchief and I told him my newly assembled suspicions, which must not made any sense to him at all because I'm sure it still doesn't make sense to me.

"When I was done all I could think of to ask was what in God's name is a Tibetan monk doing sitting on all alone a bench in Frankfurt in the middle of winter?"

"'But I am not alone, it seems,' the fellow said, and grinned."

"How did he happen to be there?" Peter asked.

"I found out later that he was a some multicultural conference or other, but the next thing that I knew I was bound for Tibet, and my new life as the personal smuggler for adherents to a particular sect of Buddhism." The monk looked around to the busy UN building. "It's a perfect setup for me; I even get to come to New York sometimes. You'd be amazed how hard it is to find a good bagel in Tibet."

"You're not concerned about him—or anyone else—finding out about your new identity? If Mozzie knows-" Peter began.

The monk smiled. "Not at all. First of all, everyone in my world has a sort of early warning system in place. I had left instructions with a few people that if word ever went around about me and—that man—to let me know. Apparently I still have more friends than I realized. This informant of mine heard about some asking about some thief and the man in question and thought it was close enough. Mozzie and I are in adjacent networks, shall we say."

"Who isn't?" Peter muttered.

"But the best con about my situation is that each of us at the temple, we take the same name upon joining the community. It's something about humility, I think." He laughed. "I'm not sure, really. All of the dogma goes over my head. I'm valued for my other skills."

"But If he has your fingerprints flagged in a database," Peter said thoughtfully.

"You underestimate the power of this," the man indicated his robe, "And this," he smiled beatifically. "We're a gaggle of Choedek Norbus going through customs simultaneously. My brothers' smiles and my skills—I can slip through almost any situation very easily."

The rest of the monks had appeared without Peter realizing it. He watched the maroon-robed figure he'd been talking to be absorbed into a color-coordinated mass.

He suddenly realized he'd forgotten to ask a question. "Choedek Norbu?" he asked.

Twelve men turned around in eerie unison, but he focused on the one he could just pick out as the criminal he'd been talking to. "Are you gay?"

It was one of those questions he should have known would come out a little more forcefully than he intended, and several passersby gave him a disgusted look. Asking any religious figure about their sexual practices was considered gauche in most circles, he thought, kicking himself.

The only ones unperturbed were the monks. Each Choedek Norbu sent him a splendid smile and then they went on their way.

"How was your personal day?" Elizabeth asked her husband at dinner that night.

"Mozzie had me on one of his screwball missions to meet a contact." He laid down his fork. "I think this whole thing is crazy and maybe I'm crazy too."

"No, honey, don't say that. It's all right to be worried about Neal." She reached across the table and touched his arm. "I'm worried about him, too. He doesn't come by any more to make suggestions about my menus or pull strings to get me a venue. Going to a museum with him, and seeing things through his eyes, it's—"

There were tears in her eyes, suddenly, and Elizabeth dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

Now Peter squeezed his wife's hand. "I know he's like a reminder of art school for you, hon, Things aren't the same at the bureau with him sleepwalking through cases, either. We'll figure out what's going on with him. Don't worry—I have a plan."

Elizabeth looked up. "A plan? What are you going to do?"

Peter' looked away. "It's the sort of plan i can't tell you about."

Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. "Honey, are you breaking the law?"

"Not the criminal law." Elizabeth was giving him a cryptic look. "Just trust me, sweetie. Have I ever let you down?"

"Not yet," Elizabeth said. A serious look rose to the surface of her face and she seemed about to say something before she changed her mind. "But maybe I need you to prove it to me one more time. Come to bed."

Dinner dishes forgotten, they went to bed, each feeling a little guilty about enjoying themselves when their friend might be in danger.


	6. Chapter 6

"Remember, stick to the plan, Burke," Peter admonished himself as he was buzzed through a luxurious foyer after only a short delay. He almost wished it took longer to gain admittance into Prentiss Lloyd Scott's Park Avenue haven, because he didn't really have a plan. The only thing that propelled him behind the butler and down the long passageway was a faith that all the garbled messages his instincts had been giving him would at last resolve themselves into a comprehensible order.

All he had was one rule: there were no rules anymore.

Along with a guideline: the farther beyond his comfort zone, the better, if he wanted to succeed.

A middle-aged man, much more handsome than Peter would have liked, stood up from a table where he'd been having dinner with Neal. "Prentiss Scott, welcome to my home," he said in a friendly tone.

The look Peter was getting from Neal was anything but friendly, but he extended his hand with confidence. "I'm Peter Burke, Neal's colleague. Pardon my intruding upon your dinner."

"Nonsense, we were finished. Please, sit."

As soon as Peter had been seated, Scott leaned over to the fuming Neal Caffrey. "You're right—he fairly reeks of goodness."

If that was what it took to make Neal relax a little, Peter would take the gibe.

"Neal has told me a little about you," Scott said and Peter was sure he heard an emphasis on the 'little,' "though none of your crimefighting adventures—but he didn't mention your drinking preferences. I'd say he's a beer man. Is he, Neal?"

"He has a moral objection to anything with a cork in it," the artist said, which the FBI man took as a not-so-subtle reference to his nosiness.

"Would you look at that?" Prentiss crowed as the butler came in without being called. "Tomas had you pegged as a beer man as well."

The other two men got quiet as Peter accepted the bottle and tried to hide his displeasure at the Japanese characters on the label. He gamely took a sip and his false smile of appreciation turned into a genuine one.

"What kind of beer is this?" he asked. "It's—perfect."

Neal and Prentiss exchanged a conspiratorial smile that made Peter's expression several degrees less genuine. "In my cellar I try to collect things that run towards the archetypal rather than the monetarily valuable. This beer illustrates Japan's particular genius at grasping the essence of something. In this case, what Budweiser wants you to believe it will be, but cruelly then disappoints."

Their host pressed one of his shirt buttons. "Tomas, bring something for Agent Burke to nibble on while he has his beer."

"That's not really necessary," Peter said, enjoying the next sip as much as the first.

"Speaking of archetypes, you don't get your fill of your favorite while you're at work?" Neal asked with venom.

Peter looked blank.

"The old Wiley E. Coyote versus Roadrunner, you versus the criminal, the thrill of the chase?" the ex-criminal explained bitterly.

"If you've come to count my silver, you'll find that thoroughly policed by my butler, along with the rest of my belongings," Scott said, and Peter hated the grateful look his friend shot the billionaire. "As a matter of fact, Neal did produce a forgery as a practical joke, and it was very impressive." He took a sip of wine. "And I'm not easily impressed."

Peter sustained the man's gaze and felt it to be the first maneuver in a battle.

He was up for the challenge.

"It's called trust, Peter, I've been holed up in here every spare minute, with a Rembrandt, a Picasso, and other priceless objets d'art, and meanwhile Prentiss is off earning his money—which is also legit-and it's really quite cozy. Can't the bureau let me have a private life without constantly suspecting me of committing a crime?" Neal said with something very different than his usual poise.

Peter waggled his finger at his own neck. "So, no tie means you're here as a civilian. What, Mozzie put you up to this?"

"I came on my own accord because I miss you."

"You just saw me two hours ago!" Neal exploded.

"I saw the shell that tries to pass itself off as Neal Caffrey." Peter was aware that Prentiss Lloyd Scott was watching the show with interest. "There's more to you than a nice suit and a hat showing up at a crime scene. Your heart's not in it. If this is where it is," he gestured to the art-stuffed room, "then I thought it worth a shot to be here too."

He saw his veiled suspicions about the older man's relationship with Neal register

In Scott's eyes before being wiped away.

"I have a brief business matter to take care of," the older man said, rising. "Please consider yourself host for the moment," Scott added, his hand ghosting towards Neal's arm but never reaching it.

If it had, it would have been a full-fledged gag that Peter had to swallow instead of a half one. The FBI man's instincts had been in a riot since he walked through the door. Wittingly or unwittingly, the billionaire was making it very easy for Peter to access his protectiveness of Neal.

"You don't know how to be a friend without controlling at the same time, _Agent Burke_, but Prentiss, he's the opposite," Neal said as soon as they were alone. "Being here is this string of golden moments. I hum a song, and nine times out of ten, he knows what it is. The same for art, literature, European cities."

Something was boiling behind Peter's ribcage and he cooled it with another delicious swallow of beer.

The food came, sausage and cheese with a stout bread, and Neal took the occasion to get up and start pacing around the room. "You'll see what being caged up does to an artist," he was saying while he pawed through a cabinet stuffed with papers and canvases. "I'll show you," he said, his voice rising as the papers spilled out on to the floor.

Neal knelt on the ground to collect the items, and Peter got up to grab him by the shoulders. He lifted the smaller man up as if he weighed nothing, steered him to the couch, and sat him down next to him. "You're not well, Neal," he said gently. "Things aren't going well for you for whatever reason, and that's exactly when you should rely on friends."

The younger man was looking at him wide-eyed when Scott came back into the room in time to hear Peter say, "And that's why you should come with me tonight," with his hands still on Neal's shoulders.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Scott said in that way of his that could just as easily mean the opposite.

"Of course not," Neal said, laughing easily.

Peter made sure there was no trace of hurry in the way his hands retreated from his friend's shoulders.

"Only in the sense that I'm one of several of Neal's friends who wish you would share the wealth a little."

"I am quite aware of the value of Neal's unique collection of qualities," Scott said, refilling Neal's glass and then his own. "But you are mistaken about who is in control of young Caffrey, if you think it is anyone other than the man himself."

Peter felt that clammy feeling in his throat and he rushed to fight against the drowning sensation caused by proximity to Prentiss Lloyd Scott. "Do you remember that time that opera singer was transmitting insider secrets by her dropped notes, and none of us would believe you because it sounded like the sort of thing you would say for a bureau-sponsored trip to the Met?"

"He was totally shocked that I could sing," Neal confided to their host. "And then when he found out, he made sure half the division was there listening to me sing the code. This was an alto, thank God, and not a soprano, but still—"

"Neal was a good sport when people threw flowers at him," Peter was chuckling. "All people had to do was sing one falsetto note and everyone fell out of their chairs for months."

The two men laughed and clinked glasses. "This is what I miss," Peter observed. "You don't talk with me. If you don't make me laugh, who's going to?"

"Young Caffrey does need some time off from being 'on,'" Scott said mildly, and Peter wanted to throttle him.

"That's exactly why I was just trying to convince Neal of the wisdom of coming with me tonight."

"Never let me be the one to say whether ending the evening with someone is wise or foolish," Scott parried with a grin. "But I will say that it takes a wise fool to know when to take a leap and then take it."

Peter waded into the double entendre like the man with a purpose that he was. "I can see why you spend so much time here, Neal, but just for tonight," Neal gave him a sour look, "have a non-work-related several minutes with me, and I'll leave you be." He gestured to the swank parlor.

"That's exactly what I keep telling him," Prentiss jumped in. "He needs to go out, get some perspective, rather than confronting his artistic difficulties with a frontal assault."

The hint of a blush scattered over Neal's cheeks, and Peter would have given his right arm at that moment to know why.

"It's settled then," the FBI agent said, getting to his feet. He extended his hand. "Are you coming, Neal?"

His friend took the hand uncertainly, looking at the two older men as if he couldn't put his finger on something.

"Show him a good time, now," Prentiss Scott called after them as they walked down the long empty hallway.

When they finally got outside, Peter took long, deep, cleansing breaths to try and rid himself of that dank deposit that had gathered in his throat. He felt Neal's eyes on him and realized that, having gotten him out of that mausoleum more easily than expected, he had no idea what to do next.

The FBI man, accustomed to thinking on his toes, hailed a cab and told the driver, "80 Columbus Circle."

He maintained a deadpan expression while the address traveled through Neal's brain and out his mouth in a whistle. "You're not taking me to Asiate." When faced with no answer, he insisted, "Peter, that's—on the pricey side."

Peter had already calculated how many bonuses he'd earned because of Neal and felt the expense was long overdue. "Consider it Confidential Informant Appreciation Day," he said, and then kicked himself at Neal's displeasure at being relegated to employee status. "I mean, my friend Neal Caffrey Appreciation Day."

The delight didn't leave Neal's face the whole time they were in the restaurant, not when they got the spectacular view of the city coming off the elevator, nor when they were settled into the comfortable and private circular booth Peter tipped handsomely for.

"This is nice," Neal breathed with a relaxation his friend hadn't seen in him for a while. He settled back onto the cushion. "Usually I have to be the one to find some amazing restaurant and make someone feel comfortable."

The FBI man began to relax a little bit at having chosen right. "I'm afraid you're on your own when it comes to the wine list."

He watched his companion have a completely inscrutable conversation with a waiter, and then the two men grinned at each other across the table until the wine was brought by another waiter who presented the bottle, and then the cork, to Peter.

"They must know something I don't," Neal quipped at the waiter's assumption of who was in charge. "Here, allow me."

Neal effortlessly executed the ritual steps of inspecting and approving the wine, and his friend enjoyed seeing the showoff that hadn't been in evidence at the bureau recently.

"Actually, that's amazing." Peter said when he tasted it. "Oh, I'm supposed to be less enthusiastic." He gave a curt nod to the lingering wine steward and he and Neal were alone again.

They sat back with their glasses. "We've never done this," Neal observed.

"We've been out for drinks plenty of times! Even just the two of us occasionally," Peter objected.

"Yes, but you're always in the process of going somewhere. I would have said you don't know how to sit still unless it's in front of a game." Neal sat up straight. "Does Elizabeth know you're out with me like this?"

"Elizabeth is fully on board with the rescue Neal Caffrey campaign."

"That was an evasion," noted Neal, the master of evasion. "She doesn't know," he said mischievously. "You're outside your radius."

"Elizabeth is a little more forgiving than your tracking anklet, but I suppose I am."

"To somewhat abridged freedom," the younger man raised his glass.

Peter clinked his glass while trying not to be concerned. He'd meant to text her that things were okay and he would be late, but it had slipped his mind. It was taking everything he had to keep the notoriously sensitive Caffrey focused on his friendship with Peter and not whatever he had with Prentiss.

"We trust each other. I don't need to check out everywhere I go with her," he shrugged.

"But what if something unexpected happens?" Neal wanted to know.

"You mean like that time on the job when I pretended to be a chiropractor and practiced on that woman?" Neal nodded, smiling. "She forgives me, though she has ways of making me pay for a while afterwards,"

His wife's sweet vengeance made him think of Prentiss Lloyd Scott and the juxtaposition made him ill for several reasons.

"He's in love with you, you know," Peter said casually.

"What? Prentiss? No way. He's just lonely and needs someone to impress, maybe," Neal said. He had left the person who was Scott's vulnerable pet far enough behind that he really seemed surprised by the mention of love, which Peter would have said was quite appropriate for the way Neal hung on the older man's every word.

Peter was anxious to affirm that his friend was not romantically interested in the billionaire, but tried to play it cool. "No, Neal. I can tell."

"Since when are you the expert on gay love?" the ex-criminal scoffed.

"A wise man once said 'love is love.'" Neal didn't seem to catch the reference to what he had told Diana months ago over audio surveillance, which might be for the best. "Because he looks at you like he's afraid of you."

"Attraction equals fear to Peter Burke. Interesting." The blue eyes flashed across the table.

"Come off it, Neal. You're drawn to danger a_nd_ dangerous women like a magnet."

"That must explain why you like hanging out with a world-class criminal so much," Neal continued a little tipsily. Peter couldn't remember the last time Neal had let go enough to show his cups, but there he was, giggling with flushed cheeks.

"Time to go," Peter said and motioned for the check. They both had a hearty laugh at the total, and Peter believed the overpriced wine was worth it if his friend could relax and be his old self for a few minutes.

"Thanks for a wonderful time, Peter. You're like him-Prentiss has given me so much," was the unwelcome confidence that came during the elevator ride down.

Peter said nothing at the vile comparison.

"You don't like him. Why?"

Peter remained silent. Caffrey was so contrary, if he said anything against the businessman he might as well be pushing Neal into Prentiss Lloyd Scott's arms.

"You think he's a snob, but he's not so much. I think he likes playing the role of this cultured guy, but underneath he's really wise. He sees to people's core." Neal chuckled. "I get jealous of all the time he spends on his businesses because he's so much fun."

Peter grimaced. How much was he willing to say? Anything it takes, he reminded himself.

"I don't like him because I wish you'd found whatever you found with him elsewhere," he said when they were walking down the street.

Neal was singing what was presumably one of the insider-trading arias in a lively falsetto.

"Neal, wait!"

He grabbed his friend by shoulder, just keeping him out of the path of an oncoming taxi.

Neal looked at him.

In that split second, Peter glimpsed what women must like in this man. But that wasn't as interesting as what was just underneath that charming exterior. The person he'd been chasing was there, caught by his hand, trembling a little bit with fear, blue eyes blazing.

Peters stood there solid and let him tremble like a rare bird he'd caught with one palm.

"Glad you were here," Neal said. "I was paying more attention to my aria than the traffic, lesson number one for a New Yorker."

A connection that had never been made between pursuer and pursued was finally completed. Peter was sure of it.

Neal was still trembling. "It's the adrenaline. I guess, you're right, I do need this stuff."

"Calculated risks," the lawman said. "That's what I keep telling you."

"You can let go of me now; I'm not going to walk out into traffic again," Neal looked at the hand still glued to his shoulder.

"Oh sorry," Peter said. "It's the adrenaline."

Neal touched the spot gingerly. "Thanks for saving me from getting plastered by a cab, but that's going to bruise. You really had me."

"I do what I have to do," Peter answered. A cab stopped in front of him. "Elizabeth has your bed made up; has for weeks."

"Thanks, but seeing you reminds me I need to check in on the ol' Moz, see if he's turned the apartment into a criminal training academy or something."

"Near-death experience dangerous enough for ya?" Neal called from his cab.

"You know me, always up for a challenge, especially if it's with you," Peter called back, and the look from the cabbie made him aware that this might be taken in several different ways.

The smile Neal wore as he was whisked away was just a trifle less irresistible and more uncertain that the one he brandished about on a daily basis.

Peter liked it better.

He couldn't help wondering about where that taxi came from that almost hit Neal. There's no way Prentiss Scott could know where they would be at that moment, he told himself.

"Get a hold of yourself, Burke, you sound like that paranoid monk," he mumbled in the backseat of the cab.

When he finally climbed into bed with a sleeping Elizabeth, he was telling himself once more that she would want him to do what he was doing. He simply couldn't tell her yet or it would be that much harder for him to do what needed to be done.

Peter drifted off to sleep wondering what the Neal he'd felt trembling like a bird under his hand would say about his "by any means necessary" perspective.

Elizabeth stirred under the covers, hopeful that maybe she hadn't made a terrible mistake after all.


	7. Chapter 7

That week, Neal was more like his old self again, and Peter began to settle back into the routine that had worked so well for them for so long. The occasional Prentiss Lloyd Scott influences the FBI man detected in his friend were a small price to pay for a multisyllabic CI.

On Saturday morning, however, a job came up, but when Peter called in the troops like he usually did, one of his troops was not having it.

"Please, Peter, I'm right in the middle of this canvas. Please give me the weekend off. I'll be on point come Monday morning," Neal pleaded.

"I don't want you around bullets if you're head's not in the game. But next thing I ask for- whatever it is—"

"I'll do it, carte blanche," Neal finished for him.

The artist had been waiting impatiently for his host to be through with some business deal that had occupied him for several days. He couldn't wait to show Prentiss the sketches he had been doing. When Scott came through the door of the viewing room, coffee cup in hand, Neal gave a pleased wave and wiped his hands on his smock.

"I wanted your opinion on these," he said with his portfolio opens on the table. "This guy I spotted at a bus stop. His face has a lot of character," Neal said.

"I see a boxer's nose, just like the other one," Scott said and flipped back to the previous drawing.

"But this man, he had this air about him that was similar," Neal traced the features of the next sketch with a finger, searching for the words.

"Yes, that mouth, I'd say that it was something with the mouth," the older man agreed.

"And this is someone I see in my corner bodega sometimes," Neal continued moving through the sketches.

Scott's hand stilled his guest's arm. "Neal, I see a quality to these drawings that has not been apparent in your recent work. Maybe you're coming out on top, artistically speaking. I'm sure I see something happening in you, so whatever you're doing, keep it up."

"Well, I was planning on working every spare minute this weekend," Neal replied. "Using your two-handed method, I was hoping to make progress on both paintings." He gazed at the billionaire who was nevertheless so down-to-earth. "There's no one else who could have understood what I was going through and patiently sat with me, looking at page after page of noses. Much less put up with how moody I've been for a couple of months."

"What else would I be doing?" Scott smiled.

"I have no idea—discovering more beautiful things? Making money? Playing your passive-aggressive games with Tomas in the breakfast nook? I don't think you ever get bored."

"No, I know how to entertain myself from my little corner of the world," his host agreed.

"There's a whole world out there for you, Prentiss. Maybe I can make you see that with the right brushstrokes."

"I think the world tends to look a certain way in juxtaposition with the right things. Let me or Tomas know if you need something," his host said, rising to his feet.

Peter's weekend was just as busy as Neal's but much more annoying. The job was right up the ex-conman's alley-the sort of upper-class gallery crawl he did effortlessly. Without their designated culture buff, everyone on the team did their own Neal Caffrey impression and failed miserably. Sheer persistence finally caught the suspect in an illegal offer, and they had just enough evidence to book her. They had to wait until Monday for Neal to mop up the mess from his absence, because they were sure the perp had done more than she'd admitted to doing.

Throughout the weekend, part of Peter's mind was thinking of unpleasant things he could make Neal do, to make good on that open-ended promise of his.

Other than the interrogations with the suspect, the team leader gave Neal the cold shoulder all day in the office on Monday.

"Should we just lock them in a room and leave them there a while?" Jones observed after a particularly tense meeting.

"I think they're cute when they have a tiff," Diana disagreed.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. I know we were onto something with this Scott fellow, but I don't understand why Peter doesn't let Neal in on our suspicions," Jones shook his head. "Peter doesn't tolerate intrigue long term."

"The boss will make his move at the right moment. He always does," Diana said with a smile. "What do some of the higher-ups call that look he has-it's like a rattlesnake under a rock that comes to life at exactly the right moment to lunge for the kill?"

That night, Peter gave his CI a head start and then headed over to Prentiss Lloyd Scott's mansion.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Scott, please," he said into the intercom so that there would be no confusion about the purpose of his visit.

"Agent Burke, I see," Scott greeted him in his office, his eyes on the tie around Peter's neck. "Since you neckwear is loosened, I take it you're in some stage in your transformation to civilian? Please sit," the older man said, indicating one of the chairs in his work space. "Can I get you something?"

"A Neal Caffrey would hit the spot," Peter said with all the pent-up frustration of the last few days. "Otherwise, I'm fine, thanks." He looked around the office. "You seem to do a lot of work on your own, but you must have teams of people working for you all over the globe. I run a tight ship, and we're a man down without Neal—since I consider him worth more than one agent, the fraction that he drags around work leaves us about a man short."

Scott made an encouraging gesture with his hand that might have been inviting Peter to take more rope to hang himself. "Mr. Scott, I might not be an artist, and I can't tell the difference between Pop Art and Op Art, but I happen to believe enforcing the law is important. Maybe art is the true universal because we all need beautiful things in our lives; I won't argue with you. But making the long arm of the law touch everyone takes its own kind of art. Just ask Neal if it's relevant to him."

Prentiss Scott moved one of his pencil containers an inch to the right. "Neal has spent his life running from the law, so certainly he is marked by it, but I'm afraid I cannot allow its—or anyone's—arm to reach him right now. He's finally painting in earnest. I myself have scarcely spoken to him in days."

"How do you know that he's actually painting more than the lines and circles he's been doing?" All of the drawings he'd seen scattered on the floor the last time he was there were senseless scrawls to his untrained eye.

Scott interacted with his computer to little bit, and then turned the monitor around so that Peter could see a silent video feed playing. It must be live, because it had the current date and time, and Neal, wearing the same clothes he'd worn to work, was painting with great concentration. Sometimes he was using both hands on the two canvases before him, and sometimes only one. Peter saw a version of that wild bird in the face of this man with untamed eyes that shone out of the black- and-white recording. What he wasn't prepared for was to see that Neal was talking to himself in what he assumed was his painting privacy.

"There's something compelling about our mutual friend when he forgets to be beautiful," Prentiss stated. "Tomas will make sure the splatters of paint on his face are wiped off before he goes out into the street."

"What is he saying?" Peter couldn't resist asking.

Prentiss Lloyd Scott faced the FBI agent with eyebrows raised in what appeared to be real surprise. "There's something of the voyeur in you, almost-agent Burke."

His guest laughed it off. "Force of habit after chasing someone for so long. Maybe my boundaries got a little blurred along the way."

"Well, depending on how blurred they are, you can go see Tomas. I'm not the sort of employer who likes to listen to what the cooks say about him in the kitchen, so I don't have the audio on this machine. Tomas keeps the full audio and video feeds for security purposes for a certain amount of time. He has fewer scruples than I, I assure you, and I can instruct him not to request a warrant if you want to view it."

The butler was summoned and led Peter to a room with a wall full of monitors and fancy equipment. While the employee retrieved the recording, Peter looked again at the man who glided around without making a sound. The background check that they'd done on the butler when he first became interested in Prentiss Scott revealed an impeccable record. Former employers hated to lose him. There was a high turnover in his profession, and Scott was first employer that Tomas had stayed with over five years.

Peter didn't mind being near him the way he did his employer. Perhaps because he could feel the open distaste that Tomas clearly transmitted back to everyone except his boss, and the openness was refreshing. For a man who seemed to be in his early sixties, with no education to speak of, he was fiddling with the sophisticated computer equipment with confidence.

Finally he took off the headphones he'd been wearing and the audio filled the room. Neal was talking to the canvas in front of him as he painted. "Peter if you only knew how much time I've spent studying your mouth. It's your most interesting feature, and the reason why I haven't been able to paint you thus far, I suspect. It's so hard to capture the sense that it could move at any moment. It could easily be giving me the Peter Burke frowny expression," he made a grimace and giggled, painting a little in silence.

"Or it could be the guarded, 'I think it's OK to have a good time, but don't take advantage of my leaving my guard down,' sort of thing." He studied his canvas with the paintbrush in his mouth. "Right there, Peter, if you keep your mouth just like that, I promise I will not make you regret it."

The Neal in the recording started rummaging around the paint supplies. "Damn it, that's not the right color." And then the artist began swearing with much more abandon than Peter was accustomed to in his urbane friend.

The butler fast-forwarded. "If I can make this turn out all right, you owe me a big apology for all the Mountie-like looks you've been shooting me all these months from your high horse."

In the video, Prentiss came into the room, and the butler fast-forwarded until he left, evidently respecting his employer's privacy. All Peter could see was that they were pointing at the canvases and talking about what they saw. The video raced ahead and Peter saw Neal napping on the couch, having tea-it really was much more prosaic than he'd imagined, the time that his friend spent at the mansion.

The butler stopped the recording again. "I've got a bead on you, Prentiss Lloyd Scott," Neal was saying to a canvas. "I know now why Peter gets so into the art of pursuit." He reflected a moment. "I like that. That's what this is-the art of pursuit. I see you in there, Prentiss, and don't worry. I'll be gentle with him when I reach him."

"Do you want to hear more?"

Peter had been so absorbed by first, the revelation that Peter was painting him, which was quickly soured by the fact that he was in the same boat with Scott, that he started a little. It was the first time that Peter had heard the butler's voice. He was surprised to hear that it had the soft and rolling cadence of Brazil, which contrasted so starkly with the lugubrious older man in a tail coat.

"No, thank you, I must be getting home."

"Hi El," he called as he walked in the door. "I'll be in for dinner in a minute."

Peter went into the hall coat closet and began rummaging around until he was distracted by a smell. It was his jacket, one of his older garments that he'd lent Neal, who didn't posses anything low-class enough to blend in at one of their seamier undercover ops. He sniffed and there it was, that Neal smell. He'd never thought about it before, but he knew that it was some essence of his friend.

It wasn't lost on Peter Burke that there was something seriously wrong with first, knowing that this was the way his CI smelled, and second, lingering there with the aroma filling his nose. His life had begun a long, slow slide out of control at some point back, he suddenly realized, and he felt it was important to isolate exactly when that point was, but he heard his wife coming.

"What were you doing in the closet, honey?" Elizabeth asked.

Peter had emerged with his tuxedo in his hands. "I was just wondering when the last time was I got this cleaned."

"Are you taking me somewhere special?" she asked flirtatiously, executing a few dance steps.

Her husband felt guilty for some reason when he apologized, "No, it's for work. I'm going undercover, and I'm taking Neal with me, sorry, hon."

Over dinner he tried to articulate once more his misgivings about Neal's new friend. "I watched this security footage today. No, he doesn't spy on Neal; only the butler has access to all of it. And I saw this successful, aboveboard businessman, a philanthropist even, hour after hour of him looking at Neal's art. He has more patience for it than I ever could, even more than Mozzie. But I would much rather Neal have Mozzie, oddball career criminal, as his mentor, than this guy Scott."

As usual, Elizabeth was an intelligent listener. "Mozzie has grown on both of us, and you can't deny that he has a heart of gold in there. Evidently you don't think that this guy Scott does," she said. "I trust your judgment, but all we can do is keep reminding Neal that we're there for him."

Friday night was a rare event for New York's upper crust—the Metropolitan Museum of Art was having one of its exclusive dinners. These gala occasions, to which only the crème-de-la-crème of society was invited, were the stuff of legend. Naturally, socialites were abuzz with anticipation. But for some reason, there was also chatter in advance of the evening that a certain Rodin sculpture was going to be on the market.

"This person is either really cocky or really stupid, to be advertising an item they haven't even acquired yet," Peter said to the team as they prepared for the operation.

"Hey, when you do steal something like that, trust me, you want to be able to move it out as fast as possible," Neal disagreed. "So our mystery criminal might not be that stupid after all. Though they weren't very discreet about how they left word on a dealer site."

"Awfully hard to prepare when we don't even know who this person is," Jones said in frustration. "We have an IP address that's been cloaked and rerouted so many times, there's no way to trace it."

"Then we'll just have to be extra-observant," the team leader declared.

Peter didn't mind wearing a tuxedo; he wasn't one of those men who were allergic to dressing up. But he suddenly felt very self-conscious when he met Neal on the steps of the Met.

"Hey honey," Neal gave him a peck on his cheek.

As if he did it every day, Peter pulled his CI's arm through his an0d steered them through the elegant crowd towards the door. He caught several people giving him jealous looks, but other than that, being undercover as a same-sex couple was a perfectly natural plan in New York.

Since the setting was so intimate, he'd decided against having four undercover agents inside, and thus, Neal was his date. Peter wanted to be one of the inside men because he had his own game going in addition to official business.

In advance of the event, Peter had used his network to spread a rumor: that Prentiss Lloyd Scott might make an appearance at the Met. With all the plastic surgery, he and Scott appeared to be about the same age, and men of his class must radically change their looks quite frequently because they could afford to.

If the rumor was skilful enough, the agent had a chance at seeing how people actually react to the presence of the billionaire in their midst. Everyone knew of him but few could claim to have seen him in recent years—a stock photo several years old was what was used when he appeared in the paper.

Neal had approved the open-ended identity assumed by Peter as a good way to fit in at the event without having to painstakingly construct a fake identity. If he noticed the similarity to the billionaire he knew best, he didn't say anything about it.

They emptied their pockets and went through an X-ray machine, coming out on the other side to be greeted by the private security the museum had hired for the event. "They seem to be pretty cautious," Peter approved. "But even I can tell that this would be an ideal setting to pull something off."

"Nick Holden and a very special guest," Neal said, with just enough emphasis to make Peter seem like a mysterious plus one. The person taking tickets gave a conspiratorial glance—Peter had been assured the greatest discretion for the evening.

They walked past the greeters and into one of the galleries that were specially set up with seldom-displayed pieces. "Yes, if you know rich people, they like to be surrounded by the idea of something luxurious, but it doesn't matter too much if they're actually looking at it or not," Peter continued, looking at the knots of conversationalists completely ignoring the art.

"I couldn't've said it better myself," Neal grinned. With his hand on Peter's arm he very naturally steered them before a collection of paintings. "Look at this; this is from a private collection, here just for the evening." With an assured touch, he kept one hand on Peter, directing him through the exhibits, while with the other he pointed out details of the artwork in front of them.

This was exactly what Peter meant when he told Mozzie that Neal made you feel like you're the center of the universe. For whatever reason, his friend usually didn't have the patience to explain what he saw in a piece of art before, but Peter was getting so much more out of it.

"What does this remind you of—quick—word association," Neal said, and Peter soon lost the self-consciousness that usually turned into an instant museum headache.

Though he knew it was only for show, anyone would like to pretend that they really belonged in the center of that spotlight provided by Neal, the only other person in the world for a moment.

That's why the FBI agent was surprised when he heard Jones' voice in his ear.

"You two done whispering sweet nothings in each other's years and ready to move on to sweet somethings?"

"I'll always be on the lookout for you, darling," Peter snapped for the benefit of their listeners.

"And I for you," Neal replied. They walked around in silence, Neal straightening Peter's tie and squeezing his arm to encourage him not to be annoyed at the sacrilegious accusation that he wasn't doing his job.

The ex-con halted them quite naturally before a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Did you have a doctor's appointment at 4:00 tomorrow, honey?""

Peter's eyes flicked in that direction. "Most definitely 4:00, that I might be moving it up closer," he said to indicate to their listeners that someone suspicious was walking near them.

"Is that the suspect?" Diana demanded, "The thin blonde guy who joined that group?"

"He seems confident, but you can tell he's not comfortable in a tux," Neal said.

"I've got a good feeling, too," Peter said, covering Neal's hand with his own. The guy had been moving from group to group too much, unlike the more insular high-class folks.

A discreet chime sounded, and then the museum-goers began making their way towards the elegant meal that was to be the highlight of the evening.

"This is only my second one of these," Neal confided as they were seated in a prime location, from where they could see all of the artwork, the ice sculptures and the fountain that had been created for the occasion, with none of the string players in the way.

They couldn't have asked for a better view of the Rodin, which Peter recognized from the photos they'd prepped with.

"Is it really? I would've thought you were a veteran," Peter answered. A centerpiece that was a little too tall for comfortable conversation was removed without their asking by one of the wait staff. It was replaced by a simpler arrangement that was even nicer than the others.

"Mmm," Neal sniffed appreciatively. "Jasmine."

The dishes and cutlery that were already on each table were likewise whisked away. The porcelain that replaced it had a thin gold stripe, and the silverware had a more substantial gleam.

The two men watched the preparations. "So yes, the last time I was at one of these events was when I was straight off the bus and new to New York. This only happens once every several years, it's such a logistical nightmare. And mere mortals can't get tickets, unless they come in on the arm of someone with real connections," he grinned.

"A lot has happened in your life since you were, what, 17?"

"Yeah, I gave up the flannel a long time ago." The impeccably dressed criminal nodded at his companion's amazement.

"They let you in here with flannel?" Peter marveled, looking around at the furs and sequins.

"No, I—bartered—for the chance to be one of the wait staff, which is no easy feat. These people who do exclusive parties are bonded after going through an extensive reference check. It's probably just as hard to get a job waiting tables at the White House, as it is to get the chance to pass canapés to the best of New York."

"You were casing the art?" Peter was saying as the music started up.

"Nah, I happened by and was curious to see real muckity-mucks up close. Do you know someone in the event staff, Peter? Because we're getting the red carpet treatment."

Finger bowls with petals floating in them had just been placed on only their table.

"That's why I was asking you if you had been to one of these before." Peter had already noticed that whereas the other guests were subtly moved from exhibit to exhibit is so that they didn't obstruct the traffic flow, he and Neal were allowed to stand as long as they like to be for whatever they want to look at, while Neal showed him the high points of the Impressionist specimen before them.

Neal reached across the table and ran his fingertips over Peter's knuckles. "And here I thought you were trying to impress me, honey."

The first wine was brought around, and Peter was certain that it was not what everyone else was drinking, because Neal seemed in awe of the very label.

"This wine would get you pretty far," his friend said, making a face that comprehended what their colleagues in the van must be saying to that comment.

They had every right to the laughter they shared.

And so the two undercover operatives passed the time from course to course, each new dish presented with greater refinement to their table. And just like the practiced pretenders that they were, the exchange of these pleasantries did nothing to distract their observational faculties, which were on high alert.

The well-heeled gay couple chose the beef and the fish and shared them both, all the while discussing supposed appointments that were meant to indicate which direction the surveillance team was supposed to look. It seemed as though they had a busy social calendar, because neither of them was able to tell where the suspect was signaling to.

"Are you sure you picked the right guy?" Jones demanded. "Because we only have so many cameras set up, and you've got us on a wild goose chase."

"There's only one for me," Neal said, toying with Peter's cuff as he gazed at the young blond man who'd been seated at the long table with the less-important guests. He was talking easily enough with people around him, but Neal had a clear view of his fingertips, which were making subtle waving motions as he drank his wine.

"And it only took one look for me, too," Peter returned, affirming that he was sure that they had their man. "Any luck matching the face with the guest list?"

"Must be a pseudonym, and he was wearing gloves when he turned in his ticket, because there are no fingerprints on it other than those of the ticket taker," Diana said in frustration from where she was interfacing with security up front.

The last course was finally retired, and dishes of sorbet were being circulated around the room. A waitress came up to their table and indicated that the couple should follow her.

"I don't know what they have in store for us next, but I hope that they're going to serve us dessert in the Impressionists wing," Neal hissed.

But the FBI agent could tell that that wasn't what was happening. Their bodies tensed as one as the two men followed the silent waitress down a service corridor and out onto the street. The whole time Peter and Neal were exchanging looks that said, "What we've been getting is the law enforcement extra special treatment—how could they have made us?"

"Have a good evening," the waitress said politely, startling their silent conversation. Peter emptied his wallet of all the cash that he had thought to bring that night, and hoped it was enough to sustain the impression that he was Prentiss Lloyd Scott. The woman disappeared with a nod back inside the building.

"Where did you guys go? Wait, where did everybody go? Are you two all right? Peter, do you copy?" Jones was squawking urgently through their earpieces.

"They must've made us, damn it," Neal swore in anger. "They wanted to get us of the way before the deal went down."

Peter was holding his earpiece and frowning at the noise. "What's happening in there? Can you see the Rodin?"

"It's what we don't see," Jones answered. "Somebody let off some type of tear gas bomb or something, because the last thing we saw was people holding their faces and coughing, and then the smoke obscured the cameras."

"Stand down, Diana, don't expose yourself," Peter ordered.

"Son of a bitch," Neal said. "The reason why we couldn't tell who he was signaling to is that they're all in this together. That's the way these people are—the one time I impersonated being a waiter the guy had to check it out with every single person on the team before he would give me his jacket. Probably only as clueless as I was, fresh-faced off the Greyhound, would have been able to convince them."

"That's a lot of people to keep track of, Boss," Diana put in.

"Doesn't matter, we're still in control of this thing. Diana. Jones, lock down the building. Nothing goes in or out—that includes windows and grates, the works. I see a crowd that's been gassed by an unknown substance, and that sounds like a quarantine situation to me. Call in medical attention, and we use that as an excuse to make sure that everyone stays where they are."

"You don't think they're seriously going to go ahead with the job knowing that the law has been here all evening and is standing right outside, do you?" Neal asked.

"They let off the bomb after they escorted us out, and they didn't make us Neal, they're trying to protect us."

Before Neal could react to that statement, Peter added, "Let's give them a chance to hide whatever they're going hide, and then we find where they hid it. They still think everything is going according to plan after one small hitch."

Later on, as their fellow officers tried to sort through the contradictory stories of the wait staff, some of whom had allowed themselves to be gassed for verisimilitude, while others had been protected by gas masks, the core team got together.

"The old Rodin in the coffee urn ruse. Maybe these weren't master criminals after all," Neal shrugged.

"The classics got that way for a reason," Peter replied.

"You played a good game this evening, gentlemen," Diana congratulated them.

Neal seemed too tired to react to the innuendo. "I forget how much fun I can have with this job. You run a good con, Agent Burke." He extended his hand.

Peter grasped his hand and shook it. "Good night, Neal. And thanks."

"So why did they remove you from the scene of the crime if they didn't make you?" were?" Jones wanted to know.

"Because I am an international tycoon playboy who's too private to give his name and comes out all too seldom although he is out as gay."

"I get it. Nice play, boss," Diana said.

"I dropped a few hints, that's all. And you see that I was given the kid glove treatment. People actively involved in a crime were willing to take a risk just to make sure that I didn't inhale tear gas or run any danger whatsoever."

"I knew you're onto something with this Scott guy," Jones said.

"We still don't have any evidence," their boss reminded them.

"But this man's connected," Diana put in. "And not to other people of his class, but to caterers and criminals."

"They helped him, sight unseen. This guy has a powerful reputation."

"It was a very instructive evening overall. Thank you both for picking up the slack with the unexpected turn of events," Peter told his trusted team members.

"Then why the long face, boss?" Diana asked as they were about to part ways.

"This is finally progress, but I don't feel any better. I know there's something there but I can't do anything about it." Peter rubbed his face tiredly.

"And at least you know," Diana said gently. "I got your back, no matter what."

"Thanks, Di."

Peter got his car out of the garage and drove home. He did have a really good time. The kind you're not supposed to have at this point in his life.

All the wait staff had ghosted in and out, conspiring to help this couple be alone, and they had created a sort of cushion around them. Yet Peter looked back on their evening as if he and Neal had been enclosed in something warm and translucent like amber. His and Neal's mutual enjoyment belonged to other people in the same way that you couldn't help but smile when you saw prom dates or proposals in restaurants.

Together, they had made a very successful counterfeit—worthy of a Caffrey. For one evening, Peter and Neal had made the fancy partygoers believe in something for a few moments, just by virtue of their shared laughter at the private facial expressions Neal had made at the expense of the team listening in.

Somehow, with agents hearing every word, Peter had experienced a private moment.

Agent Burke remembered clearly the first lesson he learned about undercover work: the best lies are based on truth. Lesson number two, don't fall for your own lie, was getting harder and harder to remember.

It was all part of that need to feel like he was at the center of the world. "You don't get to stay there, Burke, he doesn't belong to anyone like that. Much less you. And what would you do if you had him?"

That totally unexpected question had him gripping the steering wheel white-knuckled all the way home. This was something he never wanted to know, that he never wanted to know that he wanted to know, and here he was, Peter Burke, losing his mind, finally, after too many lies.

Occupational hazard. Get some perspective; everything will be all right in the morning.

But that question, once conceptualized, was not so easily dismissed. Peter asked that question silently, with every movement, as he slowly seduced Elizabeth awake and made love to her. What would I do? Why am I thinking these things? He pounded the interrogation into her and she responded with joy.

Spent, satisfied, he slept peacefully. As did Elizabeth.


	8. Chapter 8

"This is the ultra-secret meeting place?" Peter protested when he caught up to the small figure leaning on the railing of the Staten Island Ferry as it pulled away from shore.

"It's noisy enough to make it hard to overhear a conversation, and the tourists think you're a native while the natives think you're a tourist, meaning, in whatever case, not in their circle," Mozzie said, a couple of sightseeing brochures peeping out of his pocket. "After all, when you're on the subway, aren't you in full 'see no evil, hear no evil mode?'"

Peter took a deep breath and grimaced. "This is actually smellier than the subway, so I'll get straight to the point." The eyes looked at him unblinkingly through the glasses. "I'm going insane."

"I'd tell you it's all a social construct, but having walked through the valley of shadow a few times myself, I know what you're talking about."

The raging feelings that he had come to think of as a wild animal inside of him calmed a little, miraculously, at the matter-of-fact tone. Sometimes the FBI man understood why Neal kept this annoying little man around when everyone else flowed in and out of his life. Or maybe this was why Mozzie had a gift for animals.

The criminal pulled his hat down a little more securely against the wind. "You chose to talk with someone you don't think of as particularly sane because insanity loves company?"

"I'm not a civilian, Moz, I can't just make an appointment with a counselor if I need to get things off my chest. If anyone finds out, it goes on my record, and the bureau will use it against me forever."

"That's fairly medieval, especially in New York, where being neurotic is a time-honored way of life." Mozzie looked carefully out to the water. "I take it you don't feel comfortable talking to Elizabeth about it."

"I will, believe me I will, but she's been so accepting about this Prentiss Lloyd Scott thing I can't seem to convince her it's a delusion now."

"Hah! Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not—"

The look of abject misery on the lawman's face stopped Mozzie's recitation of the old saw.

"Why don't you tell Dr. Moz all about it, and if I can't help you, maybe I can refer you to a colleague?"

"Just like you have those shady law degrees and ordination certificates, are you really some kind of counselor?" Peter asked curiously.

The little man made a show of pressing his fingers to his lips. "Talk, because as Freud said, 'He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.'"

Peter was too overwrought to try to decode that reference.

"Ever since I've been carrying on my private investigation—always a bad idea, come to think of it—of Prentiss Scott, I've started becoming—not myself. It finally hit me the other day that this man Scott is actually quite normal. When he told me about his security recordings and I immediately wanted to hear both audio and video of Neal painting while he was alone, he treated me like some kind of nut."

"Suit, what is adaptive in one setting is completely nutty in another. Your paranoia makes you a star at your job. But up until now, that's where you've been able to leave it."

"Right, so I met your friend the monk, and at first I felt totally justified in my suspicions that Scott is this insidious influence. But in reality, this Norbu guy has no proof! Just a feeling that his misfortunes were authored by Prentiss Scott."

"Anyone else you suspect of being harmed by Scott?" Mozzie knew that Peter had collected quite a bit of information.

"They won't talk to me, or they a reasonable explanation." Peter paused and then continued unhappily, "That simply doesn't satisfy me."

"Do you believe there is something called truth, that exists separate from perception? It's a valid philosophical question."

"Moz, I'm on the ropes here," Peter protested.

The would-be counselor continued calmly, "Do you believe that it is entirely possible for this theory to be true while you are completely lacking in evidence to that effect? And do you need it to be proved in order to feel justified?"

"I don't care about truth! I want to stop feeling this way!"

The FBI man looked around nervously. Luckily the breeze and the motor carried away the force of his outburst.

"Delusions of persecution?" The con man was peering at him. "Do you think Scott is going to come after you?"

"Maybe, I have so many crazy thoughts going on in here you have no idea, Moz." Peter leaned against the railing. "I think I'm like that monk, like I'm doing it to myself. I'm my own worst enemy at this point."

"One of the skills taught to the ninja is the art of making a person take up the blade against himself."

"Thanks, Mozzie."

"I think you need to see a specialist."

Peter wasn't going to argue on that point.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but this person better be so far off the books, below the radar and outside of any professional credentials or I'm not interested."

"Don't worry. You're completely safe. You think the denizens of the criminal underworld never need to get their heads shrunk?"

The FBI agent took a long lunch and then had difficulty locating the person, but then, Mozzie had only given him a quadrant of Central Park to work from.

He tentatively extended the box of chocolates to the person in the parks services uniform. "Terence Patterson?"

The rail-thin man, an African-American gentleman of about 55 with several gold teeth, threw down his bag and trashpicker and grabbed the chocolates. "They administer my salary for me, and my social worker and I have been at an impasse for some time: they won't let me buy junk food if I don't eat my meals, and I tell them the group home slop isn't fit for human consumption."

He chewed appreciatively while examining the box. "None of that assorted cream crap. These are hard to find. Thanks."

"You're a little hard to find yourself," Peter said, hoping to move this along.

"You must really need help," Terence said in a friendly tone. "Here, consider this my office; make yourself at home." He handed Peter a pair of gloves and some pruning shears.

The FBI man stared at the person who was asking him to do his job for him.

"Oh, take the jacket, no one will give us a second look."

Peter put the labeled slicker over his suit and immediately felt less visible.

"Are you trained in a certain school?" he asked politely.

"If you came to me, it's because you don't want someone with a wall full of diplomas. Waste of time, most of them anyway. I've been through the system enough times to tell you that," Terence asserted, spearing some food wrappers.

This comforted Peter for some reason, that he wasn't missing anything by not going to a Madison Avenue shrink.

The fact that Terence wasn't taking any notes was especially reassuring.

"This is considered my work therapy. I don't like sitting behind a desk," the other man said to fill the silence.

"I think I've stopped liking it too much for my own good," the FBI agent said darkly. "I have a job of a sensitive nature."

"You're the law, of course I can tell. And not the first one I've seen." He laughed a big belly laugh at the other man's surprise. "You wouldn't be the first person to go crazy from chasing criminals all day."

"It's only one. One in particular that I've been chasing for some years, and I –caught him for about 30 seconds, and I liked it too much, and now I want him back."

It was easier to talk while they were working side by side, so Peter was miraculously able to spit out a censored version of his long history with Neal and the recent change in his feelings towards him. Maybe this is going to be easier than I expected, he dared to think.

"Have you ever been attracted to a man before?" the groundskeeper asked suddenly.

"No!" Peter gave a savage chop with the shears.

"But you're having sexual fantasies about him."

"We went undercover together and I was pretty irritated at the other agents interrupting our 'date.' It felt—like there was nothing wrong with us touching each other and eating off the same plate. The world stopped for me, for seconds at a time, that night."

"Well, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it if you weren't married," the man said with a glance at Peter's ring.

"But I am!"

"We'll get to your wife in a little while. Let's just play this out. What would an average Friday night be like for you and him as a couple?"

Peter was ashamed to have a ready answer.

"He knows everything and everyone, so when he's patient enough to explain things, I wouldn't mind going to his art shows and concerts—well, maybe some of the concerts. He gets so happy from listening to a fat lady sing an aria that I be happy sitting next to him just about anywhere and feeling him being happy."

"And at home afterwards?" Terence lifted a plastic bottle into his garbage bag.

"After getting a drink with people we know, we'd go home. I'd make him one of my excellent steaks-he'd have wine, I'd have beer-and that's all we need. A home together."

"So who does the dishes?"

"He washes, I dry."

"You watch some TV?"

"Hardly," Peter laughed, totally caught up in the vision. "I watch, he reads."

"And then you go to bed."

"Right, a simple evening." A feeling of relaxation was rolling over him, just thinking about it.

"And then?"

The smile fell off Peter's face.

"Who initiates?" continued Terence in a natural tone.

"Me," his patient answered hollowly.

"Do you undress before or after you get into bed?"

"After, no, before."

"And he's laying there, looking at you, what do you do then?" the complete stranger asked.

"He said something about my mouth, for a painting. So he sees my hesitation and runs his fingers over my lips. I grab his hand and I kiss him.

"I keep removing my mouth to see that look in Neal's eyes, wild, but waiting to see what I'll do next.

"He's smaller than I am. He feels—fast—aerodynamic—made for flight-and I hold him in my arms and kiss him as if my life depends on it."

"Maybe it does," the groundskeeper observed.

The stranger's voice pulled him out of the fantasy. He dropped the shears.

"Did I really say all that?" he gasped.

"No hesitation at all. Like I barely had to nick the vein," Terence replied.

"I don't want to go any further." Peter realized he was trembling.

"Hey man, there's a bench right close to here. Sit. Have a chocolate. No, really, sugar is good for shock."

Peter picked something that turned out to be a hazelnut truffle. It did make him feel a little better.

Maybe he should keep chocolates around the office to clear his head.

"I think about these things in the office sometimes. Or at home, anywhere, but it's like the thoughts are thinking me."

He looked worriedly at the older man, who merely nodded. "There are a couple of possibilities, the one you're most worried about, that you're going certifiable, being the least likely."

The FBI man slumped back on the bench in relief.

"However, the second worst-case scenario in your eyes-that you want this man romantically-is the most likely."

Peter took another chocolate.

"These things happen, what can I tell you?" Terence shrugged. "All the statistics in the world about sexual orientation being set by a certain age are made for exceptions."

The FBI man put his head between his knees.

"Hey, dude," Peter flinched from the slap on the back. "You don't strike me as a homophobe, so cheer up. Maybe this guy likes you back."

"I'm married!" he exploded, making a few birds scatter from a nearby tree.

"Let me put it to you straight-sorry, no pun intended. This is either something you explore, you learn about yourself, and you file away, never to disrupt your life—"

"Or it isn't," Peter completed.

"But the mind is like quicksand, my friend. The more you struggle with something, the easier it sucks you down. You don't want your life to change? Then you head face-first into those fantasies like a big boy. I'd say you have a 50/49 chance of being able to keep this as a fantasy, which is really nobody's business but your own."

"Where's the other 1%?"

"Oh, that's ending up in Bellevue. Don't worry; it's pretty nice there. The food is better than the group home. But like Freud said, 'One is very crazy when in love,' so chances are you're good."

This guy was so sensible Peter suddenly felt bad that he didn't have his own legitimate practice. There was one strong possibility for why that was.

"Can I ask-?"

"Schizoaffective disorder. Best of both worlds. I got your delusions and your emotional torment covered."

The agent hadn't even touched on his Prentiss Lloyd Scott delusions, but he felt that this might be the person to talk about them with some time.

He sat there at the end of his long lunch, feeling all the unthinkable things he'd just voiced hanging in the air. Peter took a deep breath. "As bad as this was, I'm not dreading going back to the office. Thank you Terence. What do I owe you?"

"My situation is kind of like being in prison-money doesn't do me that much good. If you could get me a new belt, something a little smaller than this one, I'd be grateful. Maybe a pastrami sandwich, next time."

"Consider it done."

"Leave word with our mutual acquaintance about your next appointment," Terence called after him.

Peter wolfed down a hot dog on the way to the subway and got back to work with a clear mind for the first time since his evening as Neal's "date."

That night was a goodbye celebration for someone at work, and Neal broke his recent custom and stayed for the party. It was so rare to have him at an office function that he ended up being the center of attention, people asking him to tell favorite stories and do card tricks. He was even forced to sing his famous insider trading aria, for which he received a resounding round of applause from the entire restaurant.

"Sometimes this feels like home," Neal said softly from where they stood with their drinks.

Knowing about Mozzie's "Homer" idea, Peter knew this was sacred ground.

"I think we each have several potential homes, and while sometimes we have to choose, there is such a thing as the 'home not taken.'" It was what he'd been considering since his "therapy" appointment today. Peter felt serene at being able to say a coded version of the fantasies his mind insisted upon producing about his CI.

Neal was looking up at him. "You're a wise man, Peter. I never know what you're going to come out with, and I like that. Like right now, you could just as easily be thinking of some crime you're going to nail me for, or—

"Or what?" Peter prompted in a small voice, both men looking at the woman serving her cake.

Neal laughed. "That's the thing. I don't know. That's the beauty of our relationship."

Peter's heart panged at the word relationship.

"Stop giving us another rendition of your date from the other night," Jones called over to them.

"I was disappointed I didn't get to see the kiss goodnight," Diana agreed.

"Come on!" Whistles and catcalls came from their colleagues.

Long experience undercover helped Peter keep his face in the appropriate "come on guys" expression, while inside he wanted to drag Neal out on the street and kiss him but good.

Peter's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"I'm sorry, honey, I've had the most terrible day," Elizabeth said in a weepy voice.

"What's the matter, hon?" Peter asked with his finger in his ear.

"Everything went wrong at this event I had tonight. Everything. I felt like I had a big kick me sign on my back."

"Are you home?"

"No, we're just about finished cleaning up. Do you know anyone who would need some extremely expensive vinegar? Because I'm your woman."

"No, sweetie, you're not making any sense. Vinegar, did you say? Did something go wrong with the supplies for the dinner? I thought you triple-check everything the day before, like always?" Peter was pulling on his coat.

"I did, Peter, but I don't open every single bottle of wine, obviously. This was that professional association for the architects, they wanted to spend more on the wine than the food for the dinner. We sampled the wine together; I ordered cases of white and red; and I sampled it again yesterday."

Peter was holding on to a doorway.

"All of the layers of the bottles, all except the top, had faulty corks, though they looked absolutely fine to me. Normally it would be the reverse, you know, the elements getting to the outside bottles first. But it was the inside that had all turned. We're not talking 1957 Chateau Marmont, so the chances of the red and the white-" Elizabeth gave instructions to someone. "I'm here. Are you there?"

"Don't you have your special service to get you out of a jam?" her husband prompted.

"Yes, I brought in different wine, which you know how people are, after the second glass they don't notice. But it was at a steep markup for the rush delivery. I won't even tell you—"

"Ssh, honey, I don't care how much it cost. I care that you had a terrible evening and I know how you are—you put on a brave face so you don't make things worse for everyone else, and you were crying on the inside."

He listened to the sobbing for another minute while he threw some money down and squeezed the shoulder of the woman who was leaving the bureau.

"It's El," he mouthed to Neal, and Peter left the restaurant.

"Listen, El, I parked my car nearby. I'll be home within the hour. Can you leave all the cleanup to someone else?"

"I'm sorry to ruin someone else's good time by having you leave the party," she sniffled.

Peter didn't want to think about what kind of dare his colleagues would have egged Neal into trying on him.

But he forced himself to play through the fantasy in the car so he could focus on Elizabeth when he got home.

Neal's hand had been playfully snaking up his arm. It circled around his neck, swiveling Peter to face him, moving down his mouth so he could do something teasing and liquid with his tongue.

Peter had to slow down. He was going way over the speed limit.

He didn't know when it had happened, but fantasizing about his CI was now less frightening than thinking about Prentiss Lloyd Scott.

His wife came in right after him and he listened to Elizabeth tell the tale again, calmer. Apparently one of the refrigerators at the rented space had been functioning just below food-grade temperature, and the shrimp had spoiled.

"But that was clearly the rental hall's fault, so they had to assume all the expense for getting more shrimp cocktail at the last minute," she related. "People think I'm crazy for going around with my food thermometer."

"You are not crazy, Elizabeth Burke. You listen to me on this one."

And he hugged her while swearing himself to secrecy:

Don't tell her about the worms-don't tell her about the monk and his Chippendale furniture—Peter Burke, you keep those worms to yourself.

There was nothing he wanted to do more than share the clammy feeling that had reasserted itself in his throat.

Peter had no way of proving that these two misfortunes to befall his wife were not only related, but intentional.

"Scott's flexing his muscles, showing me what he can do," he thought to himself, lying in bed next to his sleeping wife. "This is what he does—he gives you a warning that he holds your life in his hands and you'd better do what he wants."

What the billionaire wanted was very clear:

He wanted Neal for himself.

Maybe a while back, when Peter was trying to show the tycoon that Neal was off-limits because he already had a home, and loved ones, and didn't need his Rembrandt and his fine wines, maybe then the threat wouldn't have been as effective.

But now, when even hearing Neal's voice evoked that special Neal smell in this nostrils and it made him have to recite the Bill of Rights to calm down the commotion in his pants—

Now the choice between his wife's wellbeing and Neal in his life was a torture.

Every time Peter leaned back on the pillow and shut his eyes he saw worms.

But when he finally got to sleep, very late, there was something wriggling in the bed with him all right. It was Neal, slinking, almost escaping his arms. Peter wrapping his body around the other man to hold him, keep him, just like that, don't leave, just like that.

Elizabeth was stroking his back when he woke up.

"I wasn't very attentive to you last night," she said, evidently much calmer.

"You were upset." He stroked her face and then followed her gaze.

"You know stress at work does that to me sometimes," he said, getting up to change himself and the sheets.

"We both have stressful jobs, and I love how you don't judge me for my occasional crying jag over spoiled shrimp," she said, following him into the shower.

He held her close under the stream of water, happy that they could rely on each other, happy that he couldn't tell if there was additional moisture on his face that was being washed down the drain.


	9. Chapter 9

Neal gazed at his host, mixed a slightly different shade of teal and resumed painting. "I can't believe you've never mentioned it," he said casually out of the blue.

Prentiss Scott froze from where he'd been posed on a blue brocade chair, gazed around the room intently and then chuckled. "I thought you'd fobbed off another forgery on me and I hadn't noticed for days."

"No," Neal said, "I mean that I've been painting you—among other things—all this time and you've never asked to see what I'm doing."

"Art is like life, my friend: we'd all do much better if we weren't constantly criticized while we were doing it."

"Well said, but you've even put one of your safes at my disposal. I've never put anything _into _a safe, Prentiss, only taken things out of them."

"And I've been encouraging you to rejigger your valuation of your own work," Scott wagged his finger. "Even if I'd never seen your recent drawings, I'd know your art certainly merits safekeeping. And when you choose to perhaps show it to me one day, it will mean all the more."

Neal sighed contentedly and took a sip from his teacup. "Sometimes I wish I had a real job just so I had the right to call in sick from it. Work is fine, but I love art. If I could paint or talk about painting all day I would be happy."

Prentiss stretched discreetly and resumed his pose. "And I've believed for some time that you were obeying just that summons when you decided to become a forger, except some wire got crossed at that moment."

The painter's brow furrowed for a moment and he brushed his hair back from his forehead. "So much is decided in a moment—maybe that one could have gone a different way after all." Then he brightened, "The other day Peter and I were undercover at the Metropolitan, and I had a very enjoyable conversation about painting. For once I was finally getting him to loosen up about being in a museum."

"Oh?" the billionaire asked.

"I was getting him to do word association, to show him that everyone can appreciate art. They had this Gauguin self-portrait special for the occasion, and do you know what he said?"

"Not at all," Prentiss replied.

"He said 'Sonny Bono.' That's what he saw in the Gauguin, and damn if that wasn't what I saw after he pointed out the resemblance. Sonny Bono! We laughed and laughed, all the while singing 'I got you, babe,' much to everyone else's confusion. Peter's so much more open than I used to think he was."

"I'm sure he is."

"I mean, we not only posed as a couple, but we did it on his suggestion! A few years ago he would have been too uptight, but he was a good sport."

"I'm sure he was very sporting."

Neal looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

Scott took a sip of his drink and the ice cubes tinkled against the crystal. "I mean that he must have had an enjoyable evening, as anyone would in your company. A date with the inimitable Neal Caffrey, faux or no—"

The older man gazed innocently back at his guest.

Neal gave a double-take and then snorted. "What? I mean you met him, Peter's a straight arrow in more ways than one. His wife dresses him—" He stared at the older man. "You're serious."

"I don't know what you mean," Scott protested and then shrugged. "Come now, Neal, you know the effect you have on people. You mean to tell me you've never turned a head that was attached to an ostensibly straight body?"

Neal carefully removed his smock and sat in a chair. "You're messing with me. Besides, people don't all of a sudden start batting for the same team at his age."

"Actually, I'd say right now was about the point in his life for the desire to finally show itself. For some of us it's a tendency towards weak vision, in others, a weakness for one's own sex asserts itself."

"Stop it," Neal said in annoyance, "Being gay isn't a weakness." He reached over to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch on the rocks.

"Peter would never cheat on Elizabeth," he resumed. "You've never seen him running the other way from women when an undercover assignment made him flirt with them."

There was a silence.

"He was comfortable with me the other night because there was no attraction!"

"Pardon me for being something of a close study of the closeted man, young Caffrey. You have your areas of expertise that I don't dispute," his host said. "No gay man of my age has escaped the torture of Tantalus—the man who pursues you until he gets you, and then wakes up with a sort of amnesia, unable to recall his own actions. My familiarity with these 'straight' men is why I posit you are right—your friend is probably terrified of his feelings if he's even consciously aware of them. Has he ever initiated any other episode of intimacy? Unwarranted touching, perhaps?"

Neal laughed. "Come off it, man, every member of the team, we push each other out of the path of bullets all the time. By your definition, I'm a slut." He set down his glass. "Oh."

"Yes? My interest is not in getting your supervisor in trouble, but more-sociological."

"That night that Peter came here and then took me out, I got a little drunk. I almost stepped right in front of a taxi, I'm ashamed to say, and Peter grabbed me just in time."

"That sounds perfectly innocuous. Better than that, you could have been a New York cautionary tale."

"He grabbed me so hard he bruised me," Neal said quietly. "I had a perfect handprint for days, working its way out of my skin."

Scott leaned against the back of the blue chair. "Again, perhaps in a heated moment like that—"

"It was how he looked at me right afterwards. For some reason we'd been saying something about how you can tell if someone is in love with somebody. I was a little drunk; I don't remember how we got on the subject.

"Peter said that when someone has fear in their eyes, that means they're in love."

"Sometimes emotion lies dormant in someone until a shock jostles them out of their slumber," Prentiss Scott said gently. "Sudden tactile contact, perhaps combined with genuine fear for your safety—"

Neal looked at his drink as if some answer lay in its depths. "He's been looking at me like he's afraid of me since that moment."

He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.

"Neal, I thought many times about bringing this up with you, what I noticed from the first time I met your friend." He nodded at the younger man's amazement. "Thinking that you would want to know, so you could maybe make things easier for your friend. To hurt him less."

Neal moved his head heavily. "Thank you, yes, I do want to know. We're stuck with each other for two more years, and I hate to think of him being miserable the whole time because of this thing neither of us asked for."

"It's really two years? Necessarily with Agent Burke?"

"What are you saying?" Neal asked dully.

"I'm merely ascertaining that you have had impartial legal counsel check that your arrangement is set up to your advantage."

"In the sense that it beats prison hands down, it is."

Neal moved to refill his glass and his host held up his hand. Scott retrieved a bottle from a hidden cupboard in a console. "For emergencies," he said with a sympathetic smile and poured the fine whiskey into the glass in front of Neal.

"That hits the spot," Neal said without relief after a sip. He drank in silence with Scott's question seeming to morph in the air between them, coming to imply that his deal with the FBI might have been set up for someone else's advantage.

"Please, Neal, don't judge your friend too harshly. I've often wondered if this was the reason why you were having such a hard time painting him—you sensed something else inside of him but couldn't articulate it."

Neal nodded, and finally got to his feet. With his usual efficient gestures he packed up his supplies, stored them in the safe, and picked up his bag.

"Thanks for everything, Prentiss, I would truly rather know the truth. But I need to go back to my place tonight. June is having the parquet redone and she's afraid the new finish they're using isn't going to be right."

"By all means. Sleep well, young Caffrey."

On the way out Neal followed his usual custom and went to one of the many bathrooms to wash up. The paint he left on his hands to deal with later when he had turpentine, but he washed his face, and this time, rinsed his mouth.

Tomas was waiting at the door to let him out. Usually Neal played a game where he tried to get the butler to crack a smile.

This time he scarcely looked at the old man until he spoke: "Bonne nuit et bonne chance, Monsieur Caffrey."

Three hours later Peter received the call:

Neal cut his anklet.

"What did he take with him? Any sense of where he went? What identity he was using?" Peter kept asking questions of the officer until he ran out of ways to avoid asking the one he couldn't bear to think of—

Why?

Peter readied himself to go in to work in silence, Elizabeth's eyes on him. "I'll find him like I've found him before," he muttered and slammed the door.

Except this time, Peter didn't go to Neal's place to look for clues.

He went straight to see Prentiss Lloyd Scott.

"What have you done?" he demanded of the man sipping a drink in a blue brocade chair. He seemed fresh despite the late hour.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," the odious little man replied.

"Neal cut his anklet. He threw away everything he worked for, and I'm not leaving until you tell me how you twisted his mind around your little finger."

"Are you threatening me?" Peter stared at him. "When you were at my home last, I seem to recall your misusing your authority on that occasion, Mr. Burke. You had no warrant, and no justifiable reason to hear the audio tapes for footage you could see was perfectly benign." He looked placidly at Peter. "There's something you need to see."

The billionaire got to his feet and walked ahead of Peter down the long, burnished passageway. He let himself into the surveillance room.

Peter stared straight ahead in rage while his host queued up some footage and then pressed a button.

"So you have a video in this room as well, I wouldn't expect anything else," Peter said when he saw the recording of himself watching Neal paint. "Do you keep a video of your office, as well, so we can watch you in your possible voyeurism?"

Prentiss Scott laughed with enjoyment. "No, Agent Burke, I would hardly be an effective international tycoon if I allowed recordings to be made of my business transactions. One of my employees could get richer than their wildest dreams selling them, and then where would I be?"

Peter was scarcely listening to the man, because, though the audio was a little muffled, he could hear the recording of Neal say, "Peter if you only knew how much time I've spent studying your mouth."

For some reason, Peter couldn't wrest his eyes away from his own image, his eyes with a febrile intensity he would instinctively avoid in someone else. It was as though his eyes were eating Neal up so that there would be nothing left for Prentiss Scott.

"Right there, Peter, if you keep your mouth just like that, I promise I will not make you regret it."

The FBI man watched himself lick his lips slowly.

He regretted seeing himself in that light, all right.

"Do you need to see more?" Scott asked, his finger on the play button.

"Are you blackmailng me?" Peter asked slowly, forcing his eyes away from the screen.

"No, I'm trying to show you yourself as you haven't cared to look at yourself for some time."

"I know who I am, and I also know who you are. You get in people's heads, Mr. Scott. This is all your doing," Peter insisted.

"Pardon me, Mr. Burke, as a man who has always known he was gay, I tend to get a little frustrated with men like you who go around completely unconsciously setting up your lives for a cat and mouse game, always the young beautiful ones who would never have you."

"Why not?" Peter asked, suddenly feeling weak.

"Because you're controlling and cowardly. You remind them of their fathers, of what they don't want to be when they're your age."

Peter sank into a chair, gripped by the voice that was confirming all of his worst fears.

Scott continued in a kinder tone, "To be homosexual, especially when I was coming up, it means you can never be sure of anything. It's this complete lack of assurance you learn to live with like living on a small raft when everyone else exists on solid land.

"Men like you, you get to have the exact same feelings somewhere inside you, but you never doubt yourselves." Scott threw up his hands. "People around you never doubt you. You seem to be rock solid, even to yourself, when all the while you're wearing a mask."

The billionaire took a breath.

"When you first came to my home and were so clumsily marking your territory around Neal, I thought you were at least somewhat aware of what he meant to you."

"I didn't know," Peter said in a voice he didn't recognize.

"Evidently not," Prentiss Scott said drily "Though how you could have such a poor grasp of Neal Caffrey is beyond me. You've studied the man like an insect all these years, surely you must know he doesn't take kindly to being controlled."

"That's why I sought some help about it. I know I shouldn't feel this way." Peter was glad to finally tell someone.

"It's not that you should feel one way or another, but you shouldn't be skulking around while satisfying your desire to be near him. How many times have you made him work an assignment where you didn't really need him? Where behind your automatic suspicion of him was some other alarm ringing in your poorly maintained psyche?"

Peter held his head in his hands. "I don't know. I can't be sure. I enjoy having him around and never thought there was anything wrong with that until recently."

Scott made a noise of disgust. "You see, this is what I mean. Your kind gives up so easily. If you love this man, and you want to be worthy of him, that's something else entirely. But I'm afraid you might lose your cozy professional situation and your wife. For someone I tell you is unlikely to love you back."

Peter looked up quickly. "How can you be so sure? He doesn't like men at all?"

"I have no idea!" Scott got up and left the room, Peter behind him, unable to walk in any way that didn't seem creepy and skulking. "I am not in the business of invading people's privacy, 'Agent.' He and I, we've never spoken about it, but I'd say the fact that he has taken off to parts unknown shows that the news is quite unwelcome."

Peter was rooted to the spot.

"He knows?"

Prentiss Lloyd Scott turned and looked at him with pity.

"He started telling me about this 'date' you initiated and put it together himself. You've been dropping hints about signs of love." He smiled. "And apparently you really bloom as an openly gay man."

"If I find out that you had anything to do with this, Scott, so help me—" Peter stood there, his thoughts and emotions a tangle, but with one thing shining out like a sickly beacon in the darkness, as it had for months now. It was Scott. It was all Scott.

"Mr. Burke, you know where to find me. I seldom leave this house. Are you quite well enough to travel? Tomas can call you a taxi."

Peter felt the butler's eyes searing into him as he stumbled through the foyer and out the door. He walked blindly for about three blocks on Park Avenue, when he had to stop because he felt like he was literally going to come apart. This was it. He was completely insane and, what was worse, he had driven away his closest friend, who he evidently had some sort of filthy attraction to.

The FBI agent not worthy of the name held onto a railing, trying to catch his breath, when he heard a screech. So immersed was he in his misery that he didn't even look up and. Not until the large prizefighter with the neck tattoo was right on top of him holding a handkerchief to him as if Peter had dropped it.

"That's not mine," Peter mumbled with an odd herbal smell in his nose.

The next few moments were a blur of colors and sounds and he completely lost all spatial orientation.

The next thing he knew he woke up in next-to-complete darkness. Moving darkness.

He had been kidnapped.


	10. Chapter 10

The only thing Peter saw in the weak light was gold gleaming at him. Then the teeth moved. "Don't worry, this is some concoction that Moz has used before. Tried and tested," he heard Terence's voice say.

"It's amazing what the Cahuaran Indians of the Amazon can do with moss. Not that I've ever abducted any one for their own good before," he heard Mozzie's nasal voice correct him. Peter's eyes were gradually getting used to the darkness. Under one weak overhead light he could make out the two men he knew within a rumbling area that must be a large delivery van.

"Don't try to move just yet," his therapist said, pushing him back onto the truck bed, where he was laid out on a sleeping bag. "You didn't even put up a fight, so I know we did the right thing forcing you to take some R&R."

"What—what's happening? Why do you have me here?" Peter asked, and then the terrible things that Prentiss Lloyd Scott had said to him came rushing back and he doubled over with an attack of nausea. It was getting worse every minute, so it must not be from the knockout treatment.

"This is the best way to have a little privacy, for someone such as yourself who isn't allowed to have a nervous breakdown," Terence explained.

Peter opened his mouth and Mozzie held up his hand to silence the other two men. "And besides, we had to make sure that we found this before you said anything else." He held up a tiny silvery speck. "Don't worry, I submerged it in acid. It's not transmitting anymore."

"That's how they found me," Terence said. "Took me a few hours to notice because I wrote it off as paranoia." Mozzie sniffed. "And I'm so far off the grid, there is literally no reason for people to be following some random mental patient unless they've got a good sense of humor. Which these guys didn't seem to."

"Who found you? I'm sorry to break it to you guys. but I'm actually clinically insane. Everything that I've ever told you about Scott, just forget about it, and turn this thing around to Bellevue."

"Jacques, the big fellow you met earlier, has been instructed to drive around the city as long as it takes for you to get your head on straight," Mozzie said calmly. "It shouldn't take long, because you're not insane. This was a tracking device, a very sophisticated bug and GPS system stuck to your phone." He brandished Peter's iPhone. "Where do you think you picked that up?"

Peter's thoughts felt thick, like some kind of soup between his ears. He waded through it to respond tiredly, "I don't know; it's a hazard of the job. I interact with dozens of criminals a week. A lot of people hate me."

"This is so state of the art, I'd never even heard of these," Mozzie protested. "I mean this is beyond micro, but it transmits to any of the number of wireless spots around the city, anything that it's heard or anywhere that you've been. The only one who can afford something like this as if it were disposable-it costs about $40 or $50,000, come to find out, is your frenemy, Mr. Scott."

Peter wrapped the sleeping bag around him, suddenly cold. But still his mind wouldn't stop replaying the vision Scott had given him of himself. "I suppose that somebody could have stuck it on my phone when I was at the Metropolitan Museum dinner. I had to go through a metal detector."

"He would have had to know you were going to be there," the criminal mused.

"I was sort of counting on it. That's why I started a rumor that I was him."

His two companions gaped at each other. "You did what now?" Terence asked.

It seemed like his perfect evening was years ago. "I moved it through channels that Prentiss Lloyd Scott might show up, and then I was Neal's top-secret plus one. The catering staff totally bought it."

"You don't seriously think that one of the most powerful man in the United States would take kindly to you impersonating him—whether or not he happens to be a psychopath?" Mozzie demanded.

"Oooo-wee," Terence slapped his knee. "You drew a line in the sand in front of a billionaire and said 'Are you going to cross this line, bitch?'"

Mozzie shot him a look. "What were you thinking, Suit? This is totally not like you – you build a case like you're making a cathedral out of toothpicks."

Peter made a helpless gesture. It made no less sense than anything else these days. "I wanted to bring this out in the open. Lance the boil, so to speak."

"Lance the boil along with your jugular," Mozzie said with a dramatic gesture.

Now was Terence's turn to give Mozzie a look. "Peter here's been going through a really hard time. I'm saying a REALLY hard time."

"You mean there's more than engaging in a pissing match with a man worth more than Arkansas?"

Peter suddenly felt like he was falling within the darkness, and he grabbed hold of a handle on the side of the wall. "Oh god, Terence, you didn't tell him."

His therapist looked offended. "I may not be a professional, but that doesn't mean that I don't have professional ethics."

Peter sagged against the wall of the van. He liked it better when he was feeling sort of drowsy from whenever substance they gave him. Now was like a light had been turned on in his head, and everything that he had ever done or thought looked hideous, the way they engineered interrogation rooms to look to make prisoners crack.

Prisoners. Neal was on the run. He was going to be in so much trouble, and there's nothing Peter could do to help him. Neal wouldn't accept his help if he could. Neal was going to go back to jail; he was going to live in that disgusting fluorescent light for the rest of his life.

"Neal ran. You don't know, do you?" He saw Mozzie's expression change. Then Peter heard an awful grinding noise that at first he thought was coming from the truck, and then felt a sudden burning sensation on his cheek.

"I had to do it, man," Terence said to him about the slap. "That's hysteria, in case you didn't know." He turned to Mozzie, who looked very concerned. "My friend, I need some time alone with my client."

"I'll ride up front with Jacques," Mozzie shrugged, pounding on the van in some type of code. When they stopped and the little man got out, Peter glimpsed something that looked like the Bronx. He didn't care—he was never going to get out of that van, he decided at some point.

"Couldn't you have kidnapped me before I went to Scott's? I never wanted to know those things about myself. I'll never be able to stop thinking of myself that way."

"I'm sorry man, last I saw you I stuck our own tracking device in your wallet, because Mozzie was worried about you."

Peter had nothing to say about this equivocal show of concern from the criminal.

"We guessed that you were going to see Scott from your direction tonight, and we've had Jacques on standby for two days just in case, but then we hit some traffic on Fifth, and by the time we got over there you had gone inside." He gestured with his hand to encompass the interior. "No bugs, so tell me what's got you all shook up."

Peter began babbling his way through the conversation with the billionaire. He rushed through some parts breathlessly and then got caught up on certain phrases that were seared into his brain forever.

"I pushed Neal away with my sick feelings, and he wanted to get away from how I feel about him so badly that he sacrificed everything. They may catch him, but there's no way that I can make this right for him."

"Hold up now; we don't know that yet. But what we do know that if you're not at your best, you're not going be able to help your friend." Peter nodded and accepted a kleenex. "And we also don't know exactly why Neal left, so it's real important that you listen to me."

The FBI agent nodded obediently. "The brain, see, it worked like cement. A thought can be malleable for a little while, but once it sets it takes a jackhammer to get it out."

He registered the blank look before him. "Let me tell you a story."

Peter shivered under the sleeping bag and nodded. Anything to put off facing what he'd done. The truck jounced along and his therapist began his story.

"About five years ago, I was having one of my periodic tuneups in some hospital, and was two days away from discharge. When you take as many medications as I do, I'm kind of like a walking science experiment. Every once in awhile, for no apparent reason, the whole shebang goes to shit and I wake up choking on my tongue or with some rash that can kill you. They usually only keep me a couple of weeks.

"You get to know people when you're on the ward with them all day long. There was this one kid young kid, about 19, but with the mental age I would've said of about five. I'm not sure he ever knew how to talk but if he did he must have forgot. He walked around whispering to himself and laughing, never making eye contact with anyone, and as far as anyone could tell, he was going to make a career out of it.

"Being locked up, the food's not bad but it's the same rotation. This one day at lunch they happened to have these little cups of pineapple, which is something they don't usually serve. And this kid, his name was Albert, was the sort that only ate 2 bites out of anything, and made a little fort out of the rest.

"It wasn't nice to take advantage, but I thought, what the hell, he's not going to eat that pineapple, and I took it off his tray. I was just getting it open, when I feel somebody looking at me and the hair stands up on my neck. This guy woke up from la-la land and was looking straight into my eyes, and saying in perfect English, "Have you no soul?"

Terence chuckled. "Now, that doesn't sound like a recipe for shock therapy and suicide for a year, and but that's the way it worked."

"Because of one sentence?" Peter asked, forgetting his own sorrows for a moment.

"That's how going crazy happens sometimes – it just takes a little push." Terence was nodding to himself.

"Now, if it had been anybody else who normally talked, and who I didn't think was functioning at the level of a preschooler, I'm sure I would have just laughed that off. But to me at that moment it seemed like God himself was speaking through this empty vessel and telling me that I didn't have a soul.

"You think you're cold right now, because something's been shaken loose inside if you?" Peter nodded. "Well, I had to be wrapped in a blanket at all times and I practically shivered my bones apart. I felt this cold wind whistling through me all the time. It's like Albert had opened this door to show me a truth, and I couldn't look away."

The two men shivered together. Terence smiled. "You got a little taste of what I'm talking about. And I hope that's all you get.

"But me, I had to go the way of the cross. I couldn't wait for the ECT sessions, I was lined up waiting for 'em, because they do mess with your memory and I wanted to forget that emptiness so bad. Usually I'm cautious about letting them experiment on me, but I took any meds they gave me. I was in Hell. I'm sure of it.

"I tried to kill myself in so many ways I won't even tell you because it'll give you ideas. And this went on for an entire year."

"So how did you get out?" Peter asked, beginning to wonder if this man was much worse off than he realized.

Terence laughed. "I got out because I got better. And as luck would have it, it was because of another thing a random patient said.

"By this time I'd been on the long-term care ward for many months. They'd moved Albert off there so that he could stop freaking me out, and then moved him back on once he started repeating the words for what turned out to be another movie he heard.

"Yup. They watched Terminator on television one night and the next day he was walking around telling people to go ahead and make his day. Come to find out he picked up a sentence and repeated it sometimes, it was like an autistic thing or something. But even then I refused to believe that it had not been God talking to me through him.

"Then we get this army type, maybe he was a Marine, I don't know. He was the kind that had PTSD so bad they gave him shots so he could sleep. And still the sounds he made when he woke up were enough to get the whole ward riled up.

"Of course, I was barely aware of him because I was so wrapped up in being in Hell. But I knew from group therapy his name was Buck, and that as far as he knew he was in Afghanistan. Reenacting battles in the hallways. The works.

"So imagine my surprise when he comes up to be one day while I was shivering in front of some soap opera and says, 'Atten-shun, soldier! Maybe you don't have a soul and maybe you do, so what?'

"Everybody knew all of each other's business in group therapy if they were able to listen, so it's not like he read my mind. But something in the way he said it, in such a matter of fact tone about my worst nightmare, he broke through to me for a minute.

"'Well, I don't know,'" I whimpered.

"'Whether you do, or do not, possess a soul, corporal, is not the reason why you're here on this godforsaken hill in Afghanistan! You're here to fight Al Qaeda, and you may die trying. That's not important. What is important is that if you keep on bellyaching, you're gonna let the whole rest of the squadron down. And you'll go down like a pussy instead of a man.'

"Buck had these real pale light blue eyes, and for a second, it was like I saw the sky, this wide blue panorama where I'd been expecting to live in a closet for the rest of my days.

"'Are you going to get off your ass, soldier, and fight the good fight?'

Terence noted Peter's rapt attention. "And believe it or not, I got off the sofa, gave a salute for the first and last time in my life, and got busy getting better.

"Within two weeks I was well enough to be discharged."

The FBI agent had no idea what type of lesson he was supposed to draw from that tale except that people go sane and insane as if by magic, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Wait, stick with me, stick with me," Terence thumped Peter's knee. "What I did those two weeks was put my head together again. Anything can be true, was what I finally came to terms with. I might not have a soul. Or I might have one. But there's no reason to give more weight to the most negative possible interpretation of things."

He looked over at Peter intently. "You're going to have to make a choice about who you are. And I want you to make it, before you get out of this truck. Take as long as you need, but decide whether you're going to listen to Prentiss Scott's warped image of you, or to what the other 99% of the people that know you think. They all describe you as good, according to Mozzie. And he's a tough cookie in his own way."

"But Scott said only an emotionally stunted man doesn't realize he's attracted to men until he's in his forties. You're not gay, are you, Terence, so how would you know? Plus, I'm sure that there are psychological journals that would say that about someone like me."

"Maybe they do. But again, are you going to listen to some psychologist, who believe me, have their own problems, or to the one person who thinks you're a monster, and ignore what everyone else says about Peter the good egg? Hell, why ignore what I say? You seem like a pretty good guy to me."

Peter gave a week little laugh, knowing what he knew now about his therapist's psychological ailments.

Terence grinned, guessing his thoughts, and then continued seriously, "We don't know why Neal is gone. From everything you've described to me, and you've told me some pretty personal shit, you actually love the guy. That may not be convenient, it may not be what you planned, but I don't think that makes you a monster. Peter, you're so terrified of acting on it, either because of fear of rejection, or hurting your wife, but those are concerns that a person with a conscience has. If you were some type of sexual predator, you would've misused the considerable hold you have over Neal, long before now."

"I kind of engineered our pseudo-date."

"Which took place in full view of FBI agents who had audio surveillance on you," Terence scoffed. "That doesn't meet my definition of a date. Have even gotten so far as actually having sex with Neal in your head?"

"No!" Peter sat up too fast and felt his head spin.

"Well then, even in the eyes of the law, you haven't done anything wrong. So you sit there and have a think, and let me know when you've decided."

Peter saw a light come on, and realize that his cell phone had ended up in Terence's hands. He was giggling at one of his phone's games.

Peter closed his eyes and he thought. He let the rolling motion of the truck lull him into a kind of stupor. He tried to imagine Neal, wherever he was. And he felt bad. Peter felt bad because for selfish reasons he was broken up about having to live without his CI, which was the most likely scenario.

He wished something he didn't believe he could have wished several years ago. He wished that Neal never got caught, that he was able to live a happy life as someone else, somewhere else. He even went so far as to populate his vision with a wife and children. The very least he could imagine for Neal was a home.

He tried to imagine his wife finding out about all of this turmoil, and even as hurt as she would be, Elizabeth would never agree with what Scott had said about him. That would be giving up, and she never gave up.

Peter might be confused. Maybe it was pathetic, to not know this about himself up until now. But he was just someone who wasn't loved by the person he had been condemned to love. That was all-it was a simple, quotidian kind of failing.

But people got past that. All the time. He still had his job. And he could pour himself into his work, even without anyone in his life who loved him. And that was going to have to be good enough. It might be more than Neal had.

He opened his eyes.

"Well?" Terence looked up from his phone. "Are you gonna rejoin the ranks of the living, soldier?"

"Yes, sir," Peter said softly. Then he added, "It's going to be a helluva fight."

"For the next little while, yes, probably it will be," the other man agreed. "We may not be high class, but you've got me, you've got Mozzie, and you still have your wife, who may be more understanding than you think."

"I could never tell her this!" Peters said aghast.

"I'm just saying, everything may not be this nightmare scenario Scott painted for you. I mean, you weren't delusional about this Scott guy being a freak, which is actually pretty good news. Not to scare you, but when of those kind of screws gets loose, sometimes they never find it."

"Small blessings I guess," Peter laughed darkly. "What am I going to do about Neal, Terence?"

"My guess would be that Scott was right about one thing. Learning how you felt about him hit a nerve. But he's only been gone a few hours- people get mugged, get hit on the head, then end up in Delaware not knowing their own name and it takes longer than that. So all is not lost yet."

Perhaps his therapy was working, or maybe he simply had no standards anymore, because Peter wanted to kiss Terence for that optimistic view.

"One thing I do know is that the only way you're going be able to help your friend is by getting your house in order."

"What you mean? You think he's coming to my home?" Peter's heart leaped.

"No, I mean you've got to figure out who you are, what you want, and get right with yourself. Starting with whether you really would want to give it a try with him."

"After everything that I heard today, it doesn't sound like any good could come of that scenario," Peter whispered.

Terence made a noise in his throat. "See, this is what I mean. All that nonsense you heard from Prentiss Scott is still soft in your head, but you let it set in there, and you'll have so many hang-ups about men, you won't want to stand next to one on the subway. That's why, for our next appointment-"

"You're letting me out?" Peter cried and rubbed his face, not wanting to imagine what he looked like. "How do you know I won't jump straight into the East River?"

"I don't, but I think it's very unlikely. You want know what's going on in Neal's head, you want to save him too much. People who still have an interest in how their own story—or someone else's—turns out, they never off themselves, in my experience.

"As I was saying, for your next appointment, I want you to take the part of yourself that is in love with a man, take him and walk him down the street."

"You're telling me to split off my personality ore something? That sounds unhealthy."

"If you want to think of it that way, but this is what you've been doing with your fantasies," his therapist said.

Peter still looked skeptical.

"This is Freud and Jung, man, this isn't some schizoaffective guy in the back of a truck telling you. You've got to dream the dream forward. When I see you again I want you to have assimilated the idea that being gay does not make you a monster, and that you loving this man is not the end of the world. Construct a good fantasy if takes everything you've got."

Before Peter could say anything, Terence rapped on the side of the truck. The vehicle came to a halt about 30 seconds later, and Peter was momentarily blinded by the street lights.

He was somewhere in the west seventies, he saw. Mozzie came out of the cab and looked him over. "He's going to live to fight another day," he said to Terence.

"Yeah, I think so," his therapist agreed.

"Listen, guys." Peter could just feel that his eyes were swollen from crying and he still felt the urge to vomit. But at least he didn't feel like he was literally coming apart at the seams anymore. "Not that you will ever tell anyone this, not that you will ever remind me of this, but thank you for abducting me. And for planting a tracking device on me."

The two men beamed at each other. Then they got serious. "You need to sweep your office and your house for bugs," Mozzie ordered. "If you want me to come over, I'll do your home. But there's no telling what other devices have made their way into your life since you stupidly poked a giant in the eye."

Peter nodded slowly. "This gives me something concrete to focus on. Elizabeth has to be OK. I'll call you if I need you, Moz."

They left him standing in front of a corner store, and, remembering his assignment for the next week, Peter walked in as if it weren't an incredible assault on his manhood to have been obviously crying.

He bought tissues, a bottle of water, and some liquid soap. And he stood there on a street corner washing his face. This is New York. How could he have lived here for so long, and still carried around such a sense of shame? Passersby scarcely gave them a second glance.

Feeling shaky as a newborn calf, he wandered around for a long time after texting Elizabeth that he had one of those days and would be home soon to tell her about it.

By the time he got on the subway, because he was not in any state to drive, he had decided exactly how much she was going to tell her. Which wasn't a lot. The most important thing was that she knew he had provoked some kind of madman, if his instincts were finally to be believed.

He came home and folded Elizabeth in his arms for some time until he realized he was making her hold his weight. "It's been one of those days were I'm so glad to have you, to have this." He gestured around their home.

"Honey, you look awful, and you're shivering," she observed. Peter was put to bed for a malady that he knew was psychological rather than physical, but it still felt so good to have someone take care of him, to think he deserved an electric blanket and herbal tea. If he wasn't sure he still deserved this, he didn't think he'd gotten so far away from it yet that he'd become what Prentiss Scott told him he was.

He fell asleep and Elizabeth called his excuse into work the next day. Peter slept and slept.

He had a lot to dream about.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time Neal got back to his apartment, everything was already arranged. Every thief worth his salt always had a go-bag hidden in some secret place. His was in June's stuffed attic in an old armoire.

His landlady was out, as he knew she would be. Neal changed into an outfit that was more Williamsburg than Manhattan. In this subtly different garb, he took his bag and left. Luckily he was spared the goodbyes with Mozzie and June. He and Mozzie would see each other again someday —they always did.

A good escape plan always has several steps. That's why the only things in his escape bag were disguise-related, along with a couple of burner phones, some wads of cash, and some granola bars.

Neal's first stop was Saint Mark's Place. Looking like a hipster as he did at the moment, no one raised an eyebrow when he got several fake clip-on body piercing rings, assorted chains, rings, black rubber bracelets and a studded belt.

He then headed into a tattoo shop he knew to be thief-friendly because it was part of the underground body mod network. The shop also offered hair dye jobs with temporary Manic Panic.

To the insistent whine of a tattoo gun, Neal passed a pleasant hour and a half chatting with the burly proprietor and his wife. He got his hair cut in short spikes and dyed a bright maroon red with some black streaks.

"What can I pay you to take that that off your hands?" Neal asked, having been staring at the weathered army green duffel bag sitting behind one of the counters.

"That old thing? You can get a new one for 20 bucks down the street," the man said, his words slightly garbled from all of his lip rings and tongue piercing.

"Not like that, my friend; that one has character. And I'll give you 100 bucks."

The proprietor chuckled. "I'll consider the rest as a tip for not letting on we met this evening," he said savvily.

"I'll do you one better," Neal said for extra insurance. "Tell your pals: don't deal with Dr. Finny. The feds are watching him on prescription drug charges and he'll poison your well."

"Thank you," the man said sincerely. "Not many outsiders care much what happens to us."

"Do what you do but be safe," Neal said about the sometimes extreme and dangerous modifications a few doctors or pseudo-doctors were willing to do.

Neal brushed the excess hair off the back of his neck changed in the bathroom. He came out wearing the distinctly more punk rock-looking clothes he'd just picked up on the street. That, along with the fake piercings and jewelry—Neal almost didn't recognize himself. He wished he could take a picture of it, because this was one of the best disguises he'd ever created. Too bad he was only going to be in it for such a short period of time.

Neal paid up and thanked the couple. The main tell for Neal Caffrey, he was aware, was the smile. It was something he practiced every day, fighting against the big smile that was so useful in contexts other than when he was on the run. Then, Neal always tried to smile as little as possible. Tonight, he didn't have to try.

Loading up the belongings he wanted to keep in the duffel bag and throwing away the hipster outfit, he emerged on the street, looking much more a denizen of that boisterous section of the East Village. The last thing he did going down the stairs was to affix cunning plastic clings on the front of his teeth, to make it look like they were stained with nicotine. Now he could smile all he wanted.

Sure that nobody would recognize him at all, Neal moved with complete ease down the street to acquire a few more things. Someone who looked like an aged-out musician, as he did, could shop in any army-navy that he liked and not arouse any suspicions. Neal hit the one he knew was open late and acquired much more straight-laced working class-looking garb. A drugstore sold him some hair accessories.

Then he slipped off the veneers for a moment to grab a falafel and carrot juice before getting on the subway to Brighton Beach.

One of the many useful things that Neal had picked up during his time on the other side of the law was that everybody was a little bit afraid of the Russian mob. In a place so heavily influenced by criminal elements as Brighton Beach was, he didn't need any particular contacts—people's default attitude was see nothing, say nothing, so you don't get into trouble.

It didn't take long for him to find a rent-by-the hour motel, naturally a mob-controlled brothel. On his walk there, Neal had found a restroom to use so that he could apply a little bit of the stage makeup he had in his bag. Looking distinctly less healthy, Neal approached the desk at the motel.

"How much does a room cost, man?" he asked in a tone calculated to sound like a privileged person slumming it and desperately trying to be Lou Reed.

"Just you by yourself?" one of the ox-like men asked.

"Oh yeah man, no girls, thanks, I just need a fix." Neal smiled his yellow smile, knowing that only a dumb hipster wannabe rockstar would talk so openly about drugs.

"You better hope he's not the next Kurt Cobain, and he doesn't OD on you—we don't need the press," the other man joked in Russian.

"This cocksucker's probably gonna be back down in a minute asking us to help him find a vein," the first man replied in Russian, snorting.

One of the hardest things to do while on the run was pretend you didn't understand a language. Neal's Russian was pretty good, and it had him biting the inside of his mouth until he drew blood as a distraction. "I'll pay you good money, dude. I just need a place to get right."

"It's a hundred fifty dollars an hour."

"What a yahoo," Neal heard the other man say as he put a heap of crumpled money on the counter without question. "Gimme 2 hours, for starters."

At long last, Neal let himself into the disgusting room with a latex-gloved hand. He was careful to wear gloves the entire time, and it wasn't just to avoid leaving prints. He used the clippers he'd bought at the drugstore to give himself a buzz cut. The remaining hair he washed several times with a strong shampoo to get the dye out, and then he lightened it just a few shades lighter than his natural color, so he wouldn't have obvious roots.

After cleaning everything carefully, Neal put on the surplus clothing, which was dark like the punk outfit. The boxy clothes combined with the slightly military haircut, made him look like someone who might have been recently discharged. People instinctively want to help out veterans and overlook any of their defects, so that had been the first part of his plan that he'd built around long ago.

Finally, he bagged up the punk clothes and garbage, keeping the leather jacket that had been his for a long time. Amazing how leather jackets could take on different personalities, and it's always best to have one worn to fit your form. A knit hat covered his new, shorter hair.

Taking one last look around the room, Neal slipped on a pair of contacts and shut off the light with a gloved finger before stuffing the gloves in his pocket.

By the time he staggered through the reception area, his pupils were pinpricks, as they should be for someone who'd shot up heroin. Looking for all world like a middle-class guy strung out of his mind and trying to keep his badass impression in place, Neal approached the desk. "I don't know what time I came in. Was it more than 2 hours?" he quavered.

"You better get him out of here before he passes out and his mama comes looking for him," one of the men said to the other in Russian.

"You're fine, everything is good, you feel good?" a Russian man said in English. Neal nodded slowly. "Then go outside and feel good somewhere else. Okay?"

Gradually straightening up until he'd gotten two blocks away, Neal removed one, then the other of the contacts as he walked. Then he put on another pair while he located a store that made passport photos.

"Can you take a picture of me?" he asked in Russian of an old man.

"You need a passport?" the man inquired.

"No, I need a picture for my sweetheart." Neal smiled.

"A picture for your sweetheart, huh?" the man repeated as if nothing surprised him. Neal quickly calculated the appropriate distance for him to stand for a driver's license and faced the camera. He made several small adjustments in the distance, but each of the photos caught him with a stern look on his face, as would befit an ex-military man, this one with decent Russian.

"Thank you sir," he said in English, paying the very reasonable fee.

"My best to your sweetheart, eh?" the man replied in Russian.

One of the most time-consuming elements of his plan had been creating a driver's license that he could easily slip up a picture in and out of. Neal had carried this one in his pocket on occasion to make it look aged. He trimmed the pictures with a pair of nail scissors and slid one of the photographs into place to find the one that looked the best. This one was a little bit too large, but he didn't expect anyone to look that closely.

With his weathered-looking driver's license and credit card in his pocket, Neal took a taxi to a rental car place. As predicted, nobody gave him a second look. His eyes were grey, adding to the somber aspect that he was cultivating with this identity, one that he did hope to keep for a little while. Aaron Richardson was a nice, normal-sounding name and the one on all his documents.

"Enjoy your drive to Chicago, sir," the man behind the counter said.

"I plan to," Neal said. And he did. He'd driven all too little in his life, both because he lived in New York, and because he was either in prison or a ward of the state. But he figured this was the most low-profile way to get somewhere so that he could regroup and then decide what to do next. Right now he didn't think he could take all the closeness with strangers that buses and trains implied. And airport security was out of the question for the next little while.

Neal did what no one would expect them to do—he drove. It wasn't a flashy car, in keeping with his humble appearance. But with the windows down, Neal was able to fancy that he could use the wind to beat anything out of his head that he didn't want to think about. And it worked miraculously well.

The veteran escape artist looked himself in the rearview mirror and nodded. The disguise didn't matter – this was who he was. Motion. All the time he spent at the FBI was like a dream. No matter how many times he told himself he was lucky, that he was learning new things and staying in one place and living above board, it wasn't him.

That must be why it was all so easy to leave behind. Once Neal made the decision at Prentiss Scott's, he felt completely at ease. He followed the escape plan as he had designed it not long after they let him out of prison.

While on the road he made contact with his associate in Chicago again. "Hi, this is Aaron," Neal said, using his new identity only on the second burner phone. "You been able to line up any work for me yet?"

"There's always work for an artist such as yourself," Yan said. "Besides, you're a man of true discretion, who understands—" and then he said something in Mandarin.

Neal didn't know very much Chinese, and most of that was Cantonese, but he had heard this expression several times from Chinese mobsters. It was the Chinese equivalent of "don't shit where you eat."

"Absolutely, I'm hoping to basically stay inside for a couple of months, You put the materials in front of me, and I'll make whatever documents you get commissions for."

"As you know, I don't do anything suddenly, to avoid attracting attention to my shop. So you'll have a few days to rest, before you have the supplies to begin work. I trust that will be welcome?"

"I feel fine," Neal said. "But if you don't have anything for me to do, I'll catch up on my reading."

"Very well, give me as much advance warning as you can before you near the meeting point."

Neal smiled to himself. Yan really didn't like surprises. Which is why he had been afraid he would have to go to name number two on his escape list—if his old acquaintance didn't appreciate being called on such short notice.

"I'm going to drive the speed limit," Neal assured him, "and I don't plan on killing myself trying to avoid stopping, so don't expect me anytime soon."

It was a very enjoyable ride. Neal didn't have to talk to anyone for the first time in forever. He got food to go when he stopped, and slept during the day at a rest stop. When he was getting close to Chicago he apprised his cautious friend of his imminent arrival. Dropping the car off at the rental place went without a hitch. Not that he believed that the FBI would have made the connections to this identity so quickly.

With so many hurdles already cleared, Neal decided to take a little walk to get reacquainted with Chicago because he had some extra time before meeting up with Yan in the restaurant. It had been years since he'd been there and only a couple months that he'd lived there per se.

Absorbed in all the changes since then, he looked at his watch. It was very close to the meeting time and Neal swore under his breath—he'd wandered a little bit too far away. Picking up his pace, he hurried towards the restaurant. Neal was feeling in his pocket to call Yan, who was sure to be annoyed that he would be a little late, when suddenly he looked around him.

Neal Caffrey didn't know where he was. He could be in an entirely strange city, for all he knew. Nothing felt the slightest bit familiar. Though he must've just come this way a few moments ago.

A conman is good at disguising his emotions. This one asked passersby for directions, but found himself nodding without being able to retain any of what people were saying.

Neal found a ledge to sit down on for a moment and catch his breath. Out of nowhere, everything that he had not been thinking about in New York came rushing in like an armed horde.

He thought of what Prentiss had helped him see in Peter, and he felt terribly guilty. Ashamed that he was letting his good friend down—both by running away from the deal that Peter had worked so hard to keep for him, but also running away from the feelings that Neal could never share.

"Not, you, too, Peter," he mumbled under his breath. "You're the exception. You're immune from the curse."

Neal felt sweaty and hot, and while his fuzzy brain tried to estimate how high his fever was, the nausea he had been clamping down on since thinking about Peter's feelings for him came rushing up his throat. He vomited.

"Hey man, are you okay?" someone asked him.

Neal walked away as quickly as he could and from the site of his humiliation. He took deep breaths. Fast food was always a gamble, was the obvious explanation. But he knew that it was not going to be that easy to ignore the memories. He just needed to make contact with Yan first. With a place to lie low, all ills can be healed, whether food poisoning or something deeper.

But when he reached into his pocket, it was empty. He seemed to have dropped his cell phone at some point, and it was his last one. Maybe it was on his lap when he stood up and ran away. Neal turned back to go find it, but by then the tears were about to overflow his eyelids because he didn't know where he was again.

Neal Caffrey did not cry in the face of adversity.

His survival instincts kicked in, and, unwilling to be found by police, an ambulance, or a good Samaritan, Neal found a dark corner. He lay down, tangling his arms and legs and in the duffel bag so it couldn't be easily taken from him, with a piece of cardboard over his body that he wished was a little larger to cover his face and body at the same time.

Some time later, he woke up with blurry vision and the worst physical sensations he'd ever felt in his life. At least he was indoors, although he didn't remember that happening.

"Where am I?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

"Neal Caffrey, you are one lucky man," the voice that sounded vaguely familiar said. "I don't need to go into the details of what I was doing in that dark alley, but at least I wasn't pretending to be a bum. It was such a good impression I almost didn't recognize you. Do you recognize me?"

Neal shut one eye and was able to sort of focus on a chubby man with curly red hair. "Um, don't tell me." His brain plucked the name out of nowhere. "Sean O'Rourke, since we're doing away with any aliases."

"You better thank your lucky stars that you got me out of that jam that time. You remember when I tried to pass that terrible fake off as legit art, me not knowing a Michelangelo from a hole in the wall?"

Neal was thanking his lucky stars—he was seeing them spinning around his field of vision. "You think I can have some water?"

"Better try some of that ice right there," the guy indicated. "You've been really sick. Like food poisoning botulism sick. I was afraid I was gonna have to actually call 911 on you and leave you to take your chances."

"That would be suicidal at this point," Neal whispered. "So if you don't mind, I'll rest up a little bit and then as soon as I can walk, I'll give you a big tip and be on my way."

"I won't mind you owing me one," the jovial face was saying, but the voice seemed somehow out of sync with the mouth. The mouth. Him saying something about Peter's mouth.

Neal just made the bucket beside the bed. He could never be mad at Peter for having feelings like this, but Neal knew that he was going to be in hell for some time because of this unlucky confluence of events. It was something he never thought about, and for the very reason that it did make him nauseous.

He put some ice in his mouth and it was heaven. His fever was so high he felt like he was floating. His eyes were too heavy to keep open, and Neal listened to the friendly chatter that was completely incomprehensible coming from the criminal he had known years ago. His savior.

Sean O'Rourke couldn't have known it then, but Neal wasn't just going back to sleep, as he had slept already for almost 24 hours. Since bringing the famed thief back to his apartment, Sean saw the man's color slowly begin to change, and his breathing began to slow, slightly, but perceptibly.

O'Rourke became frightened. If he had the nerves for it he would go big time, but he never had. He knew nothing of medicine, and he couldn't afford to be linked with the legendary criminal who was obviously on the run.

He called a couple of other underworld types for advice. "You've got to just stick it out, and when he gets better, he owes you," one thief said. "You can go big time; you can make him pay forever. We're talking forgeries for art, documents, bonds. You'll be all set—and especially with all of his contacts."

"But he was with the FBI. Everyone knows that. How do you know that he's not gonna get better and turn you in?" another lowlife suggested.

Sean, a good-natured fellow, had been genuinely glad to help out, especially someone who he remembered to be as entertaining as Neal Caffrey. But the man in the bed wasn't even the right color, and he wasn't telling jokes.

The criminal Samaritan began to regret getting in over his head. Finally, he was unable to rouse Neal, even after slapping him, putting his hands in ice cold water, laying hot and cold towels on him. There was someone he knew who claimed to know how to use an adrenalin shot, but who knew if that was what Neal needed?

Sean made a decision. He called in a favor, and a friend showed up with a car, into which they bundled Neal in the dead of night. They dropped him close enough to a hospital that he was sure to be found but not close enough to be picked up by any security cameras. They even drove to the nearest pay phone and called it in just to be sure. Sean mentally gave Neal the thieves' blessing, which was all he could do. Besides removing anything that might identify the sick man as Neal Caffrey, master forger, or any aliases that might lead to him, which is what Sean would have wanted Neal to do for himself.

And there Neal stayed at the hospital, a John Doe, an unknown man with an unknown illness. He was stranded in a no-man's-land between the acute care ward and the psych ward, alternately catatonic and raving, fighting against any of the treatments that were complete guesswork.

He was such a handful, no one tried very hard to figure out who he was.


	12. Chapter 12

"Hello, Norbert Caraway," the nasal voice said into Peter's ear.

"Hi, Norbert, this is Señor Ulysses Iroquois Tuttle," Peter barely got the odd collection of names out without laughing, but trusted that the master criminal would understand only the first letter of each name was significant.

As expected, Moz was well prepared for any situation requiring espionage and quickly grasped that the unfamiliar number belonged to the burner phone he'd gotten for sensitive business. "Glad you learned your lesson, Sr. Tuttle; I myself have several dedicated lines."

"I'd like to take you up on your offer to sweep my house, if you don't mind," Peter said. If he was well enough to be on his feet today, he was going to go to the office, but couldn't do so with a clear conscience until his home was swept for bugs.

"Of course, for the lovely Señora, anything. Will she be at home?"

"She'll be back this afternoon. I'm going to be basically sleeping at the office until we find our mutual friend, so I'd like to contract you, Norbert, or one of your associates, if necessary, as a guard of my wife and home."

"Those are two different jobs, Sr. Tuttle, best to keep a rotating group of people at a discreet distance on the Señora."

"I'm glad we see things the same way," Peter said from a few blocks away from the bureau building. "There's a matter I'd like you to look into personally. No expenses spared, you tell not a soul."

"I'm intrigued," Mozzie said into his ear.

"Drugs."

"Drugs? Whose drugs? What?" the voice squawked.

"Prentiss Lloyd Scott. Neal. Me. Drugs. You have everything I know, which is nothing, and I don't want to influence you further. Suffice it to say that your Cahuarani Indians got me to looking at my recent experiences in a whole new light."

Peter asked a few specific questions and gave instructions for further research. Then he hung up on the frustrated curiosity from the con man. He hated to admit it, but both he and Mozzie were well-adapted paranoiacs. Now that he started the other man on his line of reasoning, the criminal could be trusted to follow his own parallel investigation to the one Peter was about to force onto the FBI.

"No news, Agent Burke, but we did get a report—"

"Peter, I have something I want to show you—"

"Is Neal a good enough swimmer to get across the English Channel?"

Peter nodded and smiled at all the questions. For the next little while, he had decided, he was going to ignore everything except what could actually get Neal back.

Obeying the summons from his supervisor, Peter walked into the glass office and closed the door behind him.

"You said you wanted a private meeting?" Hughes said. He looked tired. Peter's well-rested state gave him the edge he needed.

"Yes, sir." Peter unfolded the printed piece of paper and handed it over.

"_This floor needs to be swept for state-of-the-art surveillance equipment detailed on the reverse of this page. I have reason to believe that Caffrey is the victim of a scenario I don't fully understand but do suspect Prentiss Lloyd Scott to be at the center of it. _

_I make two requests to help ascertain these serious allegations:_

_1) That Neal is taken alive, since he unwittingly bears evidence to support my theory, and _

_2) That you test me for every known intoxicant and then begin on the unknowns, using information I will supply from a confidential informant forthwith._

_Sincerely,_

_Agent Peter Burke_

"What kind of nonsense is this?" hs supervisor snapped obviously with little patience left after over a day on a high-profile manhunt.

"Let me buy you a cup of real coffee," Peter suggested, knowing his boss's tastes, and led them to a coffee bar outside the building. He didn't disclose everything that had transpired with Prentiss Scott, obviously, but he did describe in detail his experience the last time he was in the mansion.

"Altered perceptions, a high degree of suggestibility, chills, fever, nausea, dizziness, and then sleeping it off for a day? I'm fine now, but I want to make sure that whatever is in my system is captured while it's still there."

"It sounds like the flu, Burke," Hughes observed, savoring a cappuccino.

"I haven't cried so much since my father died," Peter said simply. "For an hour or so, I thought everything the man was saying to me was the gospel truth."

The veteran FBI agent looked at him for a long moment and nodded. "You do understand that if they find any substance it could go either way for you?"

"I'm pretty confident that the fact that I requested the tests will go a long way in my favor," Peter said, getting up. "Can we get the forms taken care of together on our way in so we limit the number of people who know about this?"

"Sure, but answer me this, Burke, what did Prentiss Scott say to you exactly?"

"He told me I was without redemption." That was it, in a nutshell.

"And you believed him." Hughes threw away his paper cup.

"If he'd told me to take out my gun and shoot myself I would have done it." Only afterwards had Peter realized how dangerous it was for him to have a gun on him in that state of mind.

"People aren't going to want to hear this. There are agents aiming to make their careers on capturing Caffrey," his boss said on the walk back to the office.

"Let them. As long as they bring him back unharmed," Peter said. "I have every reason to believe that when he left he was under duress."

"We'll cross that bridge later," his supervisor said as they were going up to the floor with the medical team. "Are you still on point for leading the capture op?"

"Absolutely," Peter said. "Don't let them sideline me when they find something in my system. I've got more pieces of this puzzle than anyone else, boss, and the picture I'm seeing is going to be huge."

On the way back into the office, Mozzie had texted him a list of medical tests to ask for, not all of which were standard for the FBI.

"We don't even have a form for that test," objected the staff doctor. "I've never ordered it myself. And this other condition is only known to exist in South America."

"But as an MD, you can authorize any test you like, correct? You write it on your prescription pad, take my blood, send it off to the lab. That's the process, right? If it's a question of resources, I'll reimburse the FBI myself." Peter could sense his boss giving him an appraising glance, but after his little mobile therapy session with Terence and a good 24 hours' sleep, Peter's mind had never been calmer.

"Give him whatever he wants. We'll sort it out later. But I must ask for the maximum discretion on this," Hughes said.

That finally sprung the FBI doctor into action. She wrote an order for the tests from Mozzie and then pointed to a couple of additions. "I have no idea what's going on, but I did do a year of service in Peru. These are couple tests that might have relevance for that area."

Peter sat down and rolled up his sleeve. "See you soon, sir. And thank you. Don't start the strategy meeting without me."

The doctor took a great deal of blood as well as a hair sample. "I hope you find something," Peter said when they were done.

"Most people say the opposite," the doctor observed. "You think you were unwillingly exposed?"

"I'm sure of it," the FBI agent said, putting on his jacket. "I'm not sure I'll be able to prove it. But I'm afraid there's someone much worse off than I am, so please pull whatever strings you can to get those results back fast."

"You've got me curious," she said as he left.

"All right everyone, we're going to be shifting gears just slightly," Peter said to the packed conference room. People had already burned the midnight oil on the usual "let's-capture-Neal-Caffrey" strategy, and there were grumbles at the mention of innovations.

"Burke, I missed my kid's recital; you better not tell me you knew where he was the whole time," a man said.

"I was sick as a dog yesterday, but more on that later. My instincts are telling me" (he glanced briefly at Diana and Jones) "that Neal is the victim of a crime, not the author of one this time." There were incredulous noises. "I have yet to convince anyone of that yet, but as one of the human beings that knows Neal Caffrey the best, I've been allowed to devote a small amount of resources to my parallel investigation. So most of you will continue as you were with one big difference."

He looked around the room, his new serene voice delivering his plea: "Bring him back alive."

Peter was allowed to choose a small working group, so he chose Diana and Jones and let them recruit a few rookies for the grunt work. These last were set to do searches in every database that might capture hospital admissions for someone matching Neal's description. While those searches were running, the junior agents would be looking into obscure drugs, with data funneled in from Mozzie and his shadowy minions.

His day and early evening were spent surrounded by his second family, the bureau. Peter had a brief conversation with Elizabeth at one point, in which he shared the triumph of having secured his small working group, but other than that he was completely immersed in being the captain of this FBI boat whose navigation was now in his bones.

By around 10:00 pm, many people had gone home. Some bored-looking junior agents were sitting in front of active computerized data searches and fiddling with their cell phones.

Peter was sitting at his desk, trying to make sense of a technical treatise on intoxicants when Diana rapped on the glass.

"Hey, Di, what are you still doing here?" He scanned her serious face. "Bad news?"

"No, boss," he gestured to a chair. "I just think there's something you and I need to—"

"We are not having this conversation," Peter snapped and then apologized. "I'm so sorry. The only way I've been able to get through today is by not having a serious conversation about how much trouble Neal is in, and you and I know each other better than that."

The female agent took a deep breath. "Yes, we do. That's why I think now is the time to tell you—I know."

This was one of those moments you never forget. He was sure of it. Peter Burke sustained the gaze of the first person close to him to find out about this new facet of his. The fact that Diana knew how hard it had been to be professional today made it feel like a small amount of the burden of love he'd been carrying in his heart had, in fact, been borne by someone else.

"How long?" he finally asked, because that was the crucial question.

"A long time," she said gently.

This was the greatest relief of all. That meant that his feelings for Neal weren't some sick game cooked up by Prentiss Scott. A year ago, Peter might have hoped for the opposite, he realized.

"At the risk of invading your privacy, I know how hard all this is for you right now. So I'm someone to talk to, if you want."

"I actually already have someone to talk to about this," he said, and her eyebrows shot up.

"Elizabeth?" the female agent asked.

"Elizabeth is a wise woman," was all that Agent Burke would say to that. He was too worn out to get into that subject right now.

"Regardless, boss," Diana got to her feet, "I know how it feels to have the deck stacked against you. Maybe not with a billionaire hell-bent on ruining my life, but regardless, I'm here."

"Thanks, Di, that means more than you know."

She enclosed him in a hug and they stayed that way for a long moment.

"Wait! Does anyone else-?!"

"Not at all, why do you think I've been so good at keeping this to the level of a joke? If the resident lesbian doesn't think there's anything to you and Neal, then there must not be anything there."

Peter wrestled with himself before asking the question: "Do you think Neal-?"

She shook her head. "He's too good of a con man for me to read. Sorry."

They bade each other good night, and Peter slept on the couch in his office, hoping for some news, any news.

He had used one of the staff showers, shaved, changed into emergency clothes and eaten one of the stale bagels laying around for breakfast when someone grabbed him out of the beginning of a traditional "Caffrey manhunt" meeting. How much had changed since he felt the thrill of the chase, he was thinking as he followed the junior officer to an office where the FBI doctor and his supervisor were waiting.

"This is either very good news or very bad news," he quipped with a levity he didn't feel.

"Are you on antidepressants?" the doctor asked.

"No, why?" he asked.

She rattled off a list of drug names and a few herbal preparations.

Hughes slid a piece of paper across the table before he could ask what was going on. "We've sent someone to search your house for these medications, and will eventually have to ask for medical records as well. So if you don't mind, sign here that you don't take any of these substances."

Peter had one moment of sheer panic before he remembered that as far as anyone knew, Terence was just a guy who picked up trash in Central Park.

"The FBI isn't interested in why someone might take these psychiatric drugs," Hughes said mildly, though Peter couldn't conceive of anyone taking them for any reason that would endear them to the bureau.

"Do what you like, but I don't understand. I'm trying to find proof that someone gave me an intoxicant against my will, and you're talking about legal antidepressants." He saw that aspirin and Tums weren't on the paper, and signed.

"I think you're right about being dosed," the doctor finally said. "But we're still a ways off from proving it. One of the active agents that I believe you were dosed with was dimethyltryptamine or DMT. Which is, unfortunately—

"Untraceable by any test." Peter sank down into his chair.

"But wait. This was part of an herbal preparation called ayahuasca, which is used by South American indigenous people roughly like some tribes use peyote in North America. Usually a mixture of shrubs and vines."

"South America, that's good," Peter said, brightening, aware that Hughes was studying him. He'd been avoiding having any specific conversations about what this menace was that had hurt Neal, and the old agent's imagination was doubtless tending more towards drug cartel rather than gay billionaire.

"You may not be aware that ayahuasca needs a sort of potentiating ingredient to make it 'go.' Specifically, a monoamine oxidase inhibitor, or MAOI."

"Which is used as an antidepressant, such as all those drugs on the list."

"And such as we found in your system."

Peter had no time to savor the good news, because he was grilled first by the doctor, then his supervisor.

The doctor wanted a detailed account of his symptoms the day he'd seen Scott, and of course Peter had to concentrate on giving a sanitized version. Then, his boss was an expert in old Cold War-era methods of drugging someone against their will, and he had to mentally walk through his steps in the mansion again and again.

"My instincts have been driving me nuts for months about this guy Scott," Peter said apologetically. "I knew in a way I still can't explain that he'd precipitated Neal's disappearance, and you know how I get during a chase. I was off my game."

"That's all right," the doctor said brightly. "We'll just have to go over you inch by inch for puncture marks."

Something in his expression must have set him off because Hughes burst out laughing. "Get over it, Burke, a little physical is nothing compared to having survived your first psychedelic experience. Timothy Leary and his bunch used to call DMT the 'businessman's lunch' because you could have a nice, short trip and then go about your day. As opposed to LSD, which we would have mandated a week's leave if we caught you with that."

"You lead the way," Peter said to the doctor. "Hughes, if this is enough to start making my side investigation the main one, we need to talk."

"Come find me when your clothes are back on," the old agent said.

It took a very long time, even with the doctor's assistant helping. They went over Peter's skin under microscopic magnification, starting with the top of his head. Luckily he didn't have to take off anything more than his shirt for them to find it.

It was a small puncture wound on the back of his upper arm, in a place not readily visible to him. And the wound itself was too tiny to attract attention.

"I remember now. There was a slightly longer delay than usual before they let me in, and I thought it was incriminating at the time. It occurred to me that this guy might be hiding Neal in that big house of his, and I actually looked forward to disrupting his perfectly arranged treasures with a search warrant," Peter admitted.

"But when would the drug have been administered?" the doctor asked.

"The butler always does this fussy thing with your coat—when he takes it off of you, and when he puts it on, he's very much in your space. I always hate it, but this time, when he laid his hand on my arm as if he were going to take off my coat, and I shrugged him off, not in the mood to play games."

"That sounds well-choreographed," the doctor observed. "Whose house was this again?"

"It's either going to be all over this building shortly or I'm going to be packing my desk," Peter said darkly. "Let's wait and see."

Hughes the old battle-axe took the few shreds of evidence from Peter's body and began to do that magical thing of his: he agreed with you, and somehow he got his way anyway. The veteran agent was patient, far more so than Peter, and was thus the right one to chip away at the widespread belief that the only quirk of Prentiss Lloyd Scott, the billionaire philanthropist, was that he was seen outside all too seldom.

The fact that a few bugs had turned up in the hallways on Peter's floor only—at least they'd only found a few so far—was enough to make the whole bureau start paying attention to the case. Whoever had planted them had not gotten in his office, Peter chose to believe.

He assigned Jones to pore through any video footage of Neal from the last year compared to the previous time he'd been with the bureau. They were all working late by the time he'd assembled his Caffrey montage, but Jones' face was somber when he pressed the play button for their team, Hughes, and a few others who were still there.

"You see, this is January, when Neal first met Prentiss Scott. When would you say that he started sleeping there?" Jones asked, pausing the video.

Very aware that all eyes were on him, Peter answered naturally, "When he stopped eating breakfast at the office and didn't have a cup of coffee first thing." He shrugged. "March. Everything in that house is the best, so why would he settle for the coffee mere mortals drink?"

Jones pressed play. "Wait for it, wait for it. There."

"Play that again," Hughes instructed.

They all watched Neal walk into a dividing wall at a gallery sting. He recovered so gracefully it was almost hard to spot. As it must have been for everyone with him at the time.

Jones had spliced together many more clumsy motions that looked strange in the smooth con man. Gradually, over the months, Neal moved more slowly, seemed less engaged with people.

"Unfortunately, most of our footage is too far away and we can't see facial features very well. But this is very recent, from that Metropolitan Museum event. In addition to their security videos, which are a little better than ours, they had someone taking photos of all the bigwigs for their archive. Do you remember, Peter?"

"There was someone when we came in, but I don't recall if they moved around," Peter said, his heart filling with sorrow at the idea that his date with Neal was about to be further tainted.

Jones queued up a slideshow of photos that had captured Neal at the event. Peter saw them arm-in-arm, laughing and pointing at that painting that looked like Sonny Bono.

They looked good together. It was real.

"Here it is," said Jones.

"He looks drunk. Did he have anything to drink?" demanded Hughes.

"Not until dinner. We were still looking at the art. All we had at that point was a cheese puff."

The photo had captured Neal in its center, with Peter's face in the background. Neal's eyelids seemed heavy but his pupils were the giveaway.

"He looks like he's tripping," Jones summed it up. "Big ol' pupils. He's staring at a plant, by the way, not a Gauguin."

Peter followed Jones' finger on the display, and then saw the long series of pictures taken immediately before and after. Neal had been caught staring at a plant for quite a few frames. With a goofy smile on his face.

But the agent whose hand was so proudly on his arm hadn't noticed a thing.

"You, Anders, go through Caffrey's history for drug use and/or trafficking. Someone find something with Caffrey's hair on it ASAP. Go to his apartment if you need to." Hughes finished delegating and pointed at Peter, Diana and Jones. "You three, with me."

The three of them stood there, unsure if they were being berated for bringing an intoxicated person out into the field, thereby endangering everyone, or if they were being called out on the more fundamental FBI agent failing—that of being completely unobservant to something that was now painfully clear.

"I'm going to speak for all of us, sir," Peter said in a pause in the tirade. "We were all concerned about Neal. But drugs never came to mind. He showed up on time, he helped crack cases-you can see our closure rate is about the same."

"Down two percent," Hughes barked. "And did you express this concern to anyone? To your supervisor, perhaps?"

"Do you believe that Prentiss Lloyd Scott has been drugging Neal Caffrey for almost eight months? Why would a multimillionaire drug a thief? It made far more sense that Neal was in the middle of some complicated heist, but Neal's attitude didn't mesh."

"I kept records of our research into former acquaintances of Scott's," Diana stepped forward. "The only bureau resource we're guilty of misusing is our own sleep, sir, but you can look through our notes. We found the loosest of patterns, but no proof."

"We think this man is some kind of refined sadist that enjoys ruining people's lives," Jones added. "But he's so smart and so rich, it's like he enjoys being beyond reproach."

"All of this sounds like you took your agents with you on your trip, Burke," spluttered Hughes.

Peter smiled wryly. This was going to take a long time to live down. "I'm coming to you now with a medical report," he pointed to his supervisor's desk, "that says there were traces of compounds typical of an ayahuasca preparation imbedded in the puncture wound in my arm. And it still sounds preposterous. You would have sent me for a psych eval if I came to you with mere suspicions months ago."

Peter wasn't at all sure he was going to get through this situation without one.

The old man made a gesture of defeat. "We're missing the why, people. And also, any reason at all to open an investigation into a billionaire. He probably has more lawyers than I have hairs on my head. You've already pissed him off, Peter, so unless I want more of my agents to go down under a rain of poison blow darts or something equally improbable, you need to start pulling this thing together." Peter opened his mouth. "And we're not going to rule out recreational drug use until I get many different hair samples from Caffrey. Who is still missing, by the way."

Hughes rustled the papers on his desk and Jones and Diana slunk out. He looked up. "You were going to say something?"

"Yes, sir. I think we need a profiler," Peter said.

"By all means. Get one out of bed."

"I have an outside man in mind."

"A contractor. Fine."

"There are a few details I need to iron out."

"Blast it all, Burke, I've looked at you and your crazy theories too much today. Do it. Do what it takes. Go away."

Smiling inwardly, Peter left his supervisor's office with the open-ended approval he needed.

Peter went home and gave Elizabeth a summary of the progress and lack of progress—as much as he could before collapsing from exhaustion. They had a long-delayed conversation pending but there wasn't time for anything until they found Neal.

The next morning very early he enlisted Mozzie's help in finding a way to hire Terence as a profiler without arousing too many suspicions at the group home and, most importantly, without getting himself fired.

There wasn't time for anything else, so he just called Terence a consultant and made an end of it. By the time someone raised a red flag, he hoped Neal would be found.

Neal's hair sample results started to come back and Peter was torn between triumph at the cornucopia of strange compounds present and terror at what this drug cocktail had done to his friend.

He was in the middle of a meeting with the legal department, who were all telling him he was a David compared to Prentiss Lloyd Scott's Goliath when Peter broke off mid-sentence. He opened the door to their glass-enclosed meeting room. "Sorry, everyone, I need to get our profiler up to speed."

He beamed at Terence, who beamed back.

Diana and Jones raised their eyebrows but joined the two men in a conference room. Terence had already signed so many confidentiality agreements that they could all speak freely. The newest member of their team listened quietly to Jones' long explanation, some of which he already knew.

Finally, he spoke. "You would think that if Neal's sick and in the hospital they would want to find out who he was because they want to get paid, if nothing else. That leaves us a few possibilities, one of which is that he's so sick that they couldn't turn him out if they wanted to." He was carefully not looking at Peter. "But I'm not sure you've explored another avenue. His criminal connections."

"His little criminal friend? I'm sure you've been in touch," Diana said to Peter.

"Neal has a very close friend who has—many—ties to the underworld communities," Peter said. "And yes, he's leaving no stone unturned."

Terence sat back. "The only way Neal hasn't seen at least one person from the underworld is if he fell sick before he could contact them, so let's assume at least one criminal in the US might have seen him."

"We don't know he's still in the US," Diana put in.

"Now, if I were a crook," he continued, "and I had seen this major wanted criminal looking poorly, maybe I wasn't in a position to help him out. Criminals are mighty preoccupied folks. If not, I wouldn't tell his best friend who might put a fatwa on me for not dropping everything to help. It's a close-knit world, and if this dude's as connected as all that, and really tight with Neal, I'm just sayin'.'"

The three of them sat there for a moment. "How do you propose we get around that self-preservation instinct, if that's what you're saying?" Jones asked with a good deal more respect.

"I'd start with getting a promise from his good friend that he does not, in fact, intend to ruin the livelihood and peace of mind of anyone who hurt his friend." Given Mozzie's extreme protectiveness, it was quite possible.

"So we put out a press release in the criminal community, anything else?"

"The FBI puts out word that they might wipe off a minor offense or two from people's records if they have good info," Terence suggested. "Ya'll do that stuff, right?"

"We'll take it under advisement," Peter said, knowing almost anything could be approved if the right signatures were obtained. He stood up.

"Where are you going?" Terence asked, a trifle nervously.

"I'm going to contact the friend. Diana and Jones will work on getting you set up with the information to profile Prentiss Scott."

Peter worked steadily through the next two days, going home only to bring several changes of clothes back. Neal had now been gone for six and a half days, and the most likely scenario given by the doctor was that Neal had a psychotic break from all the drugs in his system.

"Let's get lunch," Terence said from the doorway to Peter's office.

"No, I can't—"

"You're about overdue for an appointment, and I'm getting used to eating something other than baloney sandwiches and government cheese for lunch," Terence stated firmly.

"I never got you that belt," Peter said over sandwiches at his favorite deli.

"I may not need one at this rate," Terence smiled. "I see you've been taking him out for a walk."

Peter started. "I haven't been trying to get in touch with the me that's in love with Neal—I've been too busy trying to find him. But Diana did tell me she's known for some time, and that was a load off my mind."

"Regardless of what Scott might think, you can't drug a person into loving somebody," Terence observed.

"That's my theory for what was going on at that mansion as well, but out of respect for Neal I'm trying to downplay it. It doesn't explain everything, anyway."

"You talk to the wife?" Terence asked, spearing a pickle with a toothpick.

Peter nearly choked at the mention of Elizabeth. "We both know we have something to talk about, and we also know that there's no talking to me when I'm on a manhunt. Like a man possessed, she says I am." He paused. "How will I know if this work gets to be too much for you, Terence? It says in your contract maximum eight hours a day."

"You don't know," the other man says placidly. "That's how my life works. But even if something happens, I'm having the best time I've had in years, so let's not sweat it right now."

They finished up their meal and walked back to the office. A long line of serious faces was there to greet them.

"Steady now," Terence whispered before moving a discreet distance away.

"Burke," was all Hughes said before ushering him into his office. Peter was aware of many sets of eyes trying not to watch.

"Caffrey was in Chicago—must have been in the hospital since he got there," his boss said without preamble.

"And?" Peter wanted the bad news.

"I wanted to tell you in person. He's not only detoxing, though apparently that's pretty bad. He has leptospirosis."

"Lepto- what? Is that leprosy?" Peter asked in panic, putting nothing beyond Scott's depravity or capabilities.

"The CDC was the one that made the match with Neal. The medical team will brief you. It's a bacterium that exists in South America, but not leprosy. Now that they know what it is, they can treat it." Hughes gazed at him with something that might be kindness. "He'll probably live."

"Probably?" The word was stuck in his mind's craw when his phone rang. "Burke," he snapped.

"Oh he is, is he?" He listened for a moment. "Left him a block away from the hospital. Not even in the parking lot, but a block away? You put him on the phone. Yes, I mean it. Sean O'Rourke? You're too late. You don't get a 'get out of jail free' card, but you do get an enemy in the FBI by the name of Peter Burke for your trouble."

Peter hung up in fury and then realized he was in his boss's office. "Sorry, sir. One would have thought criminals took better care of their own."

Hughes shrugged. "You'll be on the next plane to Chicago, I suppose, but please be aware, Burke, Caffrey may not be able to answer questions right away. You're going to be working with DEA and CDC to figure out how he got that illness and how Scott obtained all these drugs."

Peter turned to go. "And another thing. Give a blood sample before you leave. They want to make sure you don't have it too."

Blood test, travel arrangements, rushing home to pack—none of this concerned Peter at all.

One thought overrode all others: Peter Burke knows how to take care of his own.


	13. Chapter 13

Two agents, one DEA, one CDC, met him at the airport to drive him to the hospital. They each filled him in on their angles of the case, Peter listening quietly and giving succinct answers when required.

When the DEA woman had come up for breath, Peter leaned up to the front seat where they were both sitting.

"Thank you for the update. You both seem like team players—no agency pissing matches. I appreciate that. You'll find I'm the same way. But I'd like to make my position, and that of the bureau, clear.

"Caffrey is to be considered innocent until proven guilty. He has no drug priors—probably no one within three degrees of separation of him has ever been caught with a joint."

Agent Lopez from the DEA nodded from behind the wheel. "We did due diligence but this is a weird one. Designer indigenous drugs get sent to a different desk than the ones that focus more on the minor drug dealer."

"Great. Glad we're all on the same page on that. This other statement is for you, too, Dr. Chen," the FBI man said to the sturdily-built CDC agent who looked just as much a cop as the other two. "This is my CI we're talking about. And not just any CI. I've devoted years of my life to Neal Caffrey, and if he were conscious, you'd quickly see why many of us in the bureau are very fond of him. If you could call him by his name, I'd appreciate it. We're not looking at a criminal, a throwaway person. Neal is one of a kind."

Chen nodded. "Medical confidentiality has me trained otherwise, but no problem. Congrats on not being infected yourself, by the way. Agent Lopez has talked of nothing else but getting the details of your trip, and I don't mean your flight." He grinned at the driver. "Rumor has it Lopez was 'accidentally' exposed to a psychedelic once herself. She just wants to compare notes."

Lopez spluttered a little bit and Peter relaxed a little to see that the medical man had a sense of humor.

Chen's best guesswork was that the Leptospirosis bacterium was transmitted by one of the intoxicants administered to Neal, but that the person who did so either received a very recent shipment of a fresh preparation or plant, or they grew it themselves, since the water or soil needs to be warm to grow the infectious agent. It was more likely the former, because if there was an active colony of the bacterium growing in a hothouse, say, it would take extremely careful, consistent precautions to prevent the gardener from contracting it himself, and/or it spreading through the moisture of a ventilation system."

"You say a puncture or scrape would have been the most likely method. Have you found anything like that on his skin?" Peter asked.

"He's had a rash at points, and has scratched himself when he could get loose, so that's impossible to detect on the—on Caffrey's skin at this point," Lopez put in.

"'Get loose?'" Peter asked as they drove into the hospital grounds.

"This illness looks very much like dengue fever, which was our initial diagnosis," Chen said quietly. "You should prepare yourself, Agent Burke. Your CI looks pretty bad, and he's suffering from a sort of DTs as he detoxes from the drugs. He's restrained when necessary."

With a stoic expression, Peter produced his credentials at the desk and then followed the officers to the isolation unit where Neal was housed. The others stood back politely so he could look through the window.

Unless the CDC ran Neal's fingerprints, there was no way to tell this was the man he loved except for the panging he caused in Peter's heart.

Neal's hair was cut in a severe military hairstyle and the top layer was a light brown. His skin was a doleful yellow color, and he had lost a lot of weight in such a short period of time.

Peter turned to Chen. "I'd like to go in." The doctor obtained protective garb for him and helped him suit up.

Neal was muttering quietly to himself with closed eyes, which Peter had been told were bandaged to protect them from the light while he had conjunctivitis. He didn't react to Peter's gloved hand on his own. "Neal, it's me, Peter." The FBI man stayed inside almost twenty minutes, recalling random bits of Neal's history and their history together, trying to give the febrile brain something to focus on.

The whole time he had hold of the twitching hand. That's all that Peter needed for a little peace, at this point.

"He hasn't developed meningitis, as some would who reach the acute phase," Chen said as he removed the protective gear. "Did he know you at all?"

"I like to think there's someone in there who did, but we'll see," Peter discarded the smock in a biohazard bin. "The real question is, was Neal infected deliberately?"

Lopez stared at him. "This is one of those freak occurrences that we see sometimes when organic matter is snuck across borders. Why would anyone do such a thing?"

"I've got a trusted profiler on just that question," Peter replied. "How long before we know whether anyone else was exposed?"

"Incubation is three weeks, and we're looking at the path traced by the GPS in Caffrey's rental car. So far, no one."

Peter hid a smile. "If I tell you about a criminal who is known to have handled Neal's body, can you promise to put on your scariest CDC demeanor while you test him? Frightening medical photos, the works?"

"The CDC has a reputation for being creepy?" the doctor asked innocently, and Lopez snorted.

Until he could make Scott pay, Peter would content himself with giving Sean O'Rourke the scare of his life.

The two and a half weeks he spent in Chicago were like a dream.

Most of the time, he was working with Agent Lopez and her people, trying to untangle the supply network that would have gotten the mixture of indigenous intoxicants from South America and the occasional chemical potentiating ingredients through legal or illegal channels.

"It's very difficult to get a sense of who to look for, because we don't know how much of the cocktail in Caffrey's system was by design and how much was a random mixture," the DEA woman said. "We know of sort of 'urban shaman' networks that trade in peyote and the like to raise their consciousness, but this doesn't exactly match any of the chemical fingerprints we've encountered."

The CDC was having no luck with finding other victims of the illness. O'Rourke had tested negative after a harrowing encounter with Chen, who casually mentioned that Agent Peter Burke was in town.

"I thought I was going to have to get him a bedpan when I mentioned your name," the CDC agent chuckled. "You must do one hell of a bad cop."

"The small fry always scare easy. Seeing how bad Neal looks I felt like this punk had something coming to him for dumping him on the street like that."

The rest of the time, mostly nights, Peter spent by Neal's side. He poured out everything in his heart, including his resolve to never speak of his feelings with Neal if only he would get better.

Finally, one evening Neal was being removed from the dialysis machine when he said, "Bay rum."

"What? What did he say?" Peter demanded of the nurse.

"I can just smell your aftershave over the hospital smell," Neal said, still with a thin bandage on his eyes. "How long have you been here, Peter?"

"Ever since we found out where you were. Over two weeks." The nurse settled her patient in the bed and left. Peter grasped the thin arm through the latex glove. "At this point I don't think any agency is considering you a suspect, Neal, so please relax on that count. There is no prison in your future as long as you don't commit a crime from that bed."

"I've seen a guard at the door when they changed my bandages," Neal said sourly.

"You're my star material witness—you get the star treatment," the FBI man said. "Now that you're awake, you're going to be grilled by the DEA and CDC, Good people, thankfully. You tell them what you can, and when you're tired, tell them to go to hell. I'm here part of the nights, which don't tend to be too restful for you, so we can talk then. You give an official statement of what you observed in that mansion, and tell me when we're off the record."

Neal nodded and then slipped back into the nightmare that had been flashing against the backdrop of his temporary blindness.

Peter's voice was a welcome memory of home, of Neal Caffrey, internationally renowned forger and gallant of the old school.

But he couldn't trust it now.

Men always want something. The ones who wanted him did, at any rate

When Neal left home at 17 he had $700 saved up towards a car, and thus felt like he had more than enough to get started in New York.

Witness Protection kids tended to be sheltered, and he was no exception. He'd never traveled by Greyhound before, and thus didn't know that if you were traveling alone and wanted to sleep, you did so wound around anything valuable so nobody could steal it.

He was at a rest stop in Missouri when he realized his money and the ticket for the rest of his journey were both gone.

The bus driver was unexpectedly nice, and organized a cursory search, but it became clear that the money was gone for good.

"I can take you as far as I'm driving, but you'll have to convince the next driver to take you on," the bus driver, whose name was Ike, said. "Not everyone is a humanitarian like me."

Neal tried to relax until the next leg of the journey, hoping Ike would help him talk to the next bus operator, the way he bought his passenger a sandwich and drink and was generally keeping an eye on him from the front seat.

The next meal break, Ike motioned for Neal to follow him. The few steps it took to enter the men's restroom and join the driver in a stall were all it took to change a 17-year-old's view of human nature forever.

Neal did it four more times, as many stops as Ike could engineer before he was to be relieved by another operator. His teenage self had long forgotten why he was traveling—his trip had converted into an escape, the first of so many, and Neal simply knew he must keep moving to find something better than that moment.

"Sure you don't want to go my way? I'll make it worth your while," Ike groaned from the restroom at the station where he was getting a ride home.

"No thanks," Neal said after washing his mouth with hand soap. He held onto the $20 in his pocket-not enough to get a ticket anywhere.

After Ike was safely away, Neal took his bag and went out into city because the idea of doing it again in a Greyhound stall made him want to retch.

With his pack and flannel shirt, he hitched a ride. When the man reached his hand over the stick shift, Neal was glad it spared him having to make the first move. This one was kind of nice but he didn't like being cooped up in the car after he'd done what they'd done in a truck stop parking lot.

For his troubles he got a sandwich and a piece of pie, as well as a generous $50.

The 17-year-old began to calculate the worth of incalculable things like self-respect.

The man was going all the way to New Jersey, but Neal switched off, preferring to avoid any intimacy. He forgot now how many men he rode with. Every man but one exacted a certain price, except for the fundamentalist Christian who tried to convert him as they crossed West Virginia.

Something had changed in him, though. The pious promises sounded far away.

Neal stole the evangelist's credit card while he was in the gas station restroom. His first steal.

Maybe his younger self was angry at that one for being nice to him, in an invasive way.

Maybe he was already tired of invasive men.

Too young to rent a car with the card, Neal used his other means to get to New York. one of the men's groans still fresh in his ears.

"You don't know what you have, boy. You could be a high-class rent boy in New York. Remember me, give me one for free next time I'm there."

When, by chance, Neal saw the caterers arriving at the Metropolitan Museum for the big gala, he was there because he wanted to see rich men in their habitat. To learn what they were like, so that he could take them for something more than a sandwich and a couple sweaty bills.

Luckily, there was still something left in him of the old Neal, the student who did a brisk business reproducing pictures of kids' favorite musicians on their notebooks or t-shirts in Sharpie marker.

To get in as a waiter, Neal had to not only please his initial target, but receive the approval of the group. Something in him must have aroused their collective pity, because he donned the catering outfit and passed out hors d'oeuvres as if he belonged there.

Instead of focusing on the men who gave him appraising glances, however, Neal saw the art.

He saw the Rembrandt. Prentiss Lloyd Scott's Rembrandt, as it turned out, lent for the occasion.

It was a small self-portrait out of many the artist produced. He was older, not attractive, bulbous-nosed and with a self-deprecating smile.

But he was alive, this artist Neal had scarcely heard of was alive in that sliver of wall in New York. He wanted it for himself.

And imagined that many other people felt the same way.

At that moment Neal began to change his chosen career path from hustler to forger.

His contempt for all who wanted to control him, commodify him, was identical in either case.

Neal was going to steal their antique settees from under their backsides.

To this day, the smell of industrial hand soap reminded him of tastes that couldn't be washed away.

Neal's feverish mind relived his process of becoming, over and over, always becoming more anguished when he got to the Peter chapter. How many times had he been relaxed, trusting Peter, sitting next to him in the van or on a rooftop, and Peter was covertly looking at him like that.

Like something to have.

Maybe that's why he was suddenly so successful with women upon coming to New York, he thought for the first time while confined to bed. He sympathized with them, wanted to make them feel special in a way the men in their lives seldom did.

Because most men were brutes when it came to sex.

Poor Elizabeth.

All these months, Neal couldn't help but notice that Peter had been running some kind of game. He thought it was a suspicion that he was planning an elaborate heist on Prentiss. Peter was his handler; he didn't know art. He couldn't understand an artist's needs.

Over the next weeks, Peter was in and out of Chicago, making very little headway on getting probable cause to search Scott's house, but content that Neal was getting better slowly.

With the bandages off his eyes and the quarantine precautions lifted, Peter told Neal, bit by bit, what they'd been able to piece together about his illness and drug intoxication. The FBI man was sad to see how zealously Neal defended the billionaire while often treating Peter himself at a distance.

Finally one evening, he pushed aside the ice cream he'd been toying with. "Peter, I hate skirting around this. I knew what you felt when I left, and I heard some of what you told me when I was completely out of it." He regarded his frequent visitor coldly. "How can you act like Elizabeth doesn't count?"

"She knows," Peter said, the relief flooding his body as it did on the day she cornered him in the kitchen before he left for Chicago. "She's very supportive. You've gotten the worst of it, obviously, Neal, but Prentiss Scott got inside my head, too. Neither Elizabeth nor I wants to throw away a good marriage on a pipe dream. She's giving me time to sort myself out, and we talk every night about you. You know that Elizabeth cares about you very much."

For perhaps the first time, Peter saw Neal with nothing to say. It was as though there were two boxes into which the ex-criminal placed men—solid protectors like Mozzie, or men only concerned with their own sexual conquests—and Peter was watching Neal juggle something that didn't fit in either box. The younger man stared at the wall in front of him for a long time. Then he began to speak.

"Mozzie knows," the ex-conman finished after telling of his brief career as a hustler. "He's the only one."

Peter had gradually withdrawn to a far corner of the room, afraid to get in Neal's space after that horrifying story. "I can see why you would have been upset to find out about—me. I knew you weren't homophobic, so it was difficult to understand you throwing everything away to get away from me simply because you're strictly heterosexual."

Neal laughed. He laughed for so long that Peter feared he was getting delirious again. "Should I call a nurse?" he began.

"Now where did you get that idea?" Neal said finally.

He regarded the shocked look on his friend's face. "Do you need a nurse?"

"I'm confused," Peter said.

"Do you know statistically how many guys experiment with each other during their teens?" Neal asked. Peter looked shocked. "A lot."

"You experimented a lot?" the FBI man faltered.

"No! I only dated one guy!"

"Was it serious?" Peter asked.

"As serious as you can get when you're all of sixteen. We hung out for five, almost six months, which at the time felt like an eternity. We were inseparable, and I thought I'd found that stable thing I was looking for. We were—very compatible-in every way, I thought," he said, reminiscing. "But you know how it is at that age- there's these scenes that are like islands. No bridge in between. He started to get really into death metal, and I didn't know who Bach was at the time, but that kind of noise is just not my thing.

"We drifted apart. He grew his hair out and started being a backup screamer in his new boyfriend's band. I dated a couple girls, no one serious, and then I left.

"No trauma. No weirdness. I honestly didn't think twice about it. No more than, 'Oh, there's this other possibility out there. I'll keep that in mind.' You know how I am-I accommodate quickly. It was the same when I realized you don't, strictly speaking, need to pay for things."

Peter's emotions were all mixed up. On the one hand he was disappointed that Neal didn't make being with another guy sound very interesting. On the other, there was a clear precedent of him being with a guy of his own free will.

"How did you get together with this guy?"

"As I recall, he passed me some zine he made in class one day. It was well done, funny. He was in a cartooning phase, and we drew together." He coughed weakly. "It's hard to see what someone who passed me cartoons in the back of English class has to do with me now." He paused. "I don't even recognize myself in the mirror."

"I recognize you," Peter said quietly.

The other man lay back, showing signs of exhaustion after the long, serious conversation. "Can you give me that water?" he asked.

Peter helped him drink and thought for a moment. He was known for his bravery. "Will you go out on a date with me, Neal?"

"What?" Neal asked in a low, irritable voice. "I can't even pick up that water cup."

"Consider it a wager that you're going to be on your feet soon. The doctors have told me that you've walked around a little every day this week, and you aren't contagious." He sought out the blue eyes that were his anchors in the haggard face. "So I'm asking, will you go out on a date with me?"

He allowed his motivations to be weighed by those penetrating irises. "You're not my CI right now. You're THE material witness for the FBI in a major case. Right now, you're our only link to the bastard who, directly or indirectly, put you in this bed. You've got the power now, Neal. Tell me to buzz off, I never bring it up again."

The silence seemed to stretch forever.

"Otherwise you're stuck with the hospital snack bar until discharge," he risked. "And I'm afraid I'm the only agent watching over you that you want catching you if you faint somewhere." He added anxiously, "Aren't I?"

Neal made a show of thinking and then nodded.

"That's a nod meaning you don't want Jones or Diana catching you, or a nod meaning—"

"Yes, Peter, I'll go on a date," Neal said in a querulous tone and fell asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Neal refused to travel with anyone else but Peter when he was finally released from the hospital a week later. He'd spent all week convincing the medical staff that whatever recuperation he still needed to do could be done in New York, and the return of the sweet-talking Caffrey was all Peter needed to convince him into collusion.

"Thanks for understanding," Neal panted during one of his frequent stops while traveling the length of La Guardia. "I knew anyone else would get sick of my vanity and scoop me up in a wheelchair."

These rare kind comments Peter was learning to treasure. The doctors had said that drug withdrawal tended to put people on edge, and that might be what made Neal brusque where he used to be smooth.

"There is no used to be," the FBI man thought to himself angrily while he kept his arm subtly close to Neal in case he needed to lean on it. He'd drafted an interoffice memo to the effect to prepare people for Neal's return tomorrow:

To: All staff

Re: Neal Caffrey's return

Caffrey is scheduled to return on Monday. Please refrain from cakes, cards, balloons, parties, displays of emotion and otherwise drawing attention to the fact that he has been out. Neal looks like he's been through an ordeal because he has, so prepare yourselves accordingly. Your professional demeanor will help him regain the normalcy that medical professionals have stated is an important part of his recovery.

If you have personal concerns about Neal's health, please see me privately.

Agent Peter Burke

That Monday morning Peter picked up Neal from his old place. June had been in touch with him personally throughout, and she was helpful in arranging a room for him on the ground floor so he didn't have to waste energy on stairs.

Peter was quickly learning to separate someone who knew how to deal with adversity gracefully versus people he wanted to punch for how they infantilized Neal.

June was at the head of the graceful pack. "I came across some old jewelry I was hoping you could appraise when you get a chance," she was saying as she was putting some hidden darts in some of Neal's clothes to make them fit better.

"Anything for you, doll," Neal grinned. "Peter, thanks for coming so early to accommodate my sedate pace." He put on the jacket handed to him by June. "How do I look?"

"Like a million dollars," Peter said, moved to see a little more of his old friend coming back. "Shall we?" He held out his arm gallantly.

He and Neal moved slowly into his car and then his old CI took great pains to walk upright from the FBI parking garage to the building.

"Hey Neal, welcome back—"

"Caffrey, where's that 20 bucks you owe me?"

"When you get a chance, can I pick your brain about this case?"

Neal had a joke or a flirtatious remark for almost everyone in their path, but Peter rushed them through the process so that Neal didn't have to lean on him in public. They rounded a corner and he stood against the wall, panting, for a moment, and Peter directed them into a conference room.

"Hey Caffrey, long time no see," Jones said, shaking Neal's hand after he had lowered himself into a chair, trembling.

"How does it feel to be without the anklet, Neal?" Diana asked, shaking his hand next. The FBI had graciously acknowledged the slight change in their relationship by allowing Neal to carry a GPS tracker in his pocket rather than the humiliating anklet.

"At this point I don't think I could walk with the extra weight," he admitted.

"Neal, this is Terence, our profiler." Neal knew all about Mozzie's contact by now.

"Good to meet you, man," Terence said. To Peter's surprise, his therapist was the one who took charge of the meeting. "Now, I know we're anxious to tell you about our ideas, so let's get down to it.

"We decided that there were three things in this case that were interconnected and we needed to figure out how. Scott's mental problems, which he told Neal started with his plastic surgery and breakup." Neal's story had been typed up and distributed to the team over the last month.

"Then there's the drugs, and the only logical person to access South American drugs, the butler, who is from South America.

"We each took an angle, with me focusing on the butler, because he's the big unknown. Perfect employment history. You said yourself, Neal, that he could go into business as an art dealer, most likely."

"Scott said that Tomas was well-off and could retire." Peter had been very pleased when Neal stopped calling the billionaire by his first name.

"Exactly, so why stay around, playing house with the Man in the Iron Mask? Why become his drug dealer?"

"It helped to conceptualize things that way, but we were spinning our wheels for a while," Diana took over. "Until I suggested that we could try something else instead of looking for patterns between the butler and the billionaire, who are holed up in that house and not coming out. Rich people are their own breed. Maybe these two are part of a larger pattern."

Jones had been fidgeting eagerly in his chair. "I won't bore you with the details of how I crunched the numbers," he began, and Neal rolled his eyes at everyone for the impending tech-talk. "But first we got a list of people in Scott's income bracket in the US and some known friends abroad. For each of those people I created a search that would find all the people frequently mentioned in the news with them."

"Not everyone's associates appear in the media. I wouldn't," Neal said darkly.

"No, but this primitive measurement proved useful. Stick with me, Caffrey, you'll see." He called up a set of big dots on a screen, each surrounded by colored dots of varying size. "Each of these is a bigwig, surrounded by their network. Now see what it looks like when we add in the number of disasters each associate suffered that made the papers. Fires, loss of employment, divorce, theft, what have you. Our junior officers almost quit while coding all this."

He pressed a button and made a proud gesture. "The unlucky people range in intensity from a light pink to a red, which means really unlucky." Many of the targets were surrounded by red.

"You'll need to have some kind of control before I could take this to Hughes," Peter began.

"Here's an overlay of part of the New York FBI field office, and this is pretty good data because we know these people. Look, it's no comparison, and we have dangerous jobs." There was far less misfortune on this graph. There was a quiet moment while no one looked at Neal, who seemed to be looking closely at the red dots on this graph.

"By itself, this doesn't tell us anything except not to be friends with a rich person," Terence resumed. "But I was trying real hard to put myself in the butler's head, and I thought of something my grandmother told me."

Jones laughed. "I never would have thought of it, but once Terence came out with it I couldn't see anything else. Every black kid I knew growing up got the occasional 'this is our history' speech, so as to carry on the African American oral tradition. You know, this is where we came from, don't forget it kind of thing."

"I'm sorry you guys, I think I missed something," Neal rubbed his head.

Peter grabbed him a bottle of water from the shelf. "I'm totally lost, too."

"My grandmother was a great storyteller, and she especially wanted me to learn what they don't teach you in the history books, which focus what was done to us," Terence said. "She told me about what our people did to survive and fight back. Underground Railroad stuff, yeah, but she also told me a story about traditional African herbal knowledge being passed down.

"She said that every once in awhile, rightly or wrongly, some of our people would be killed for poisoning their masters. And what some people learned from this was not don't poison them, but make sure you don't kill them. Meaning that if you could slip something in the soup that made them a little calmer, a little easier to deal with, why not?"

Peter looked at Neal blankly.

"Racial politics in Brazil—people do their dissertations on it," Diana interjected. "The butler was basically raised to be a servant in an area where there is still landed gentry, very feudal. And he's obviously of African descent. It's possible that this type of thing lives on within the cultural memory down there."

"You guys, this is very interesting, but I don't see how this helps nail the bastard," Neal objected.

Terence took up the tale. "Something had to happen to turn butler of the year into Scott's drug dealer. I think both of them felt wronged by the world, and they each provided half of some really unhealthy recipe whereby they felt entitled to mess with anyone they wanted. In one of your transcripts you recalled Scott as saying that the butler liked to be invisible." Neal nodded. "Scott became invisible with the surgery, or felt like he did. Whatever, they were creepy-close, you said."

He nodded at Jones, who returned to the computer display. "With the help of your DEA friend, let's add another overlay."

Each of the dots representing a wealthy person retreated to their geographical location on a map, to which was added green areas. "These are places where obscure South American drugs and/or DMT have turned up." There were a number of coincidences.

"That's getting warmer," Peter said, giving Neal an encouraging look. "Probably greater than chance intersections there. But I'll play devil's advocate. Why?"

"We think they fuck with people for sport," Terence said. "There it is, I'm sorry, Neal."

Peter gave Neal a moment and then said, "This is what the team came up with in your absence, but you're really team leader. Does any of this seem right?" He knew it was a hideous question to ask.

"If I may," Diana cut in. "After we came up with this theory, the way Scott explained his withdrawal from the world to Neal didn't gel anymore. But his breakup with Ben-Israel was still ground zero for how all this craziness started. So I went to go visit him."

"And how did that go?" Peter asked, imagining what someone hiding out in Utah would think of a somewhat frightening FBI agent showing up.

She laughed. "I know how to use the soft touch when necessary. When I finally was able to explain that we were looking at Scott for seriously harming someone, he started to open up."

The female agent turned to Neal. "Everything he told you was all backwards. He decided to get the surgery because he was insecure, afraid of losing his younger boyfriend, who really did love him. But when he saw the results of such a severe procedure, he started to imagine that his boyfriend, that everyone, was being so much nicer to him because he looked younger and more handsome.

"Ben-Israel said that Scott got kind of weird, and didn't believe anything he said or did was directed at the man who was the same inside. There was this layer in between, and Prentiss Scott became obsessed with his face as something separate from him, stealing from the other, aging man inside.

"He had to drive Ben-Israel out of his life, because his boyfriend wanted to stay with him if he would get psychological help, or reverse the surgery, whatever it took to feel like himself again."

"Did he use drugs?" Peter asked.

"No, we think that came later. It sounded exactly like what you told us about that monk, though," Jones said. "Just so much bad luck it wears you down until you quit."

Terence had an eye on Neal. "The next step is to try to verify that there are more people out there doing this kind of stuff, bored rich people, sadists. That's what they've got people on right now. But if you want my two cents, Neal, Scott came down on you extra hard because you cared—it's something that doesn't compute for him anymore. And then he liked you too much and wanted to keep you. Neither of which is normal thinking, so you couldn't have seen it coming."

"Guys, this is amazing work, thank you," Peter said. "But it's a lot to digest. Neal and I have another meeting, so please excuse us."

He got them almost to the car before Neal collapsed in his arms. "Their theory sounds absolutely insane to me, by the way," he murmured as Peter settled him in the car seat. "But one thing I do know, is that somehow I spent eight months of my life wanting to spend every minute with the kind of exploitative man I swore off in a truck stop."

"He had to drug you to keep you coming back for more," Peter pointed out.

They drove in silence to June's home, where Peter let Neal digest all the new ideas for the next several days.

On Friday he showed up freshly shaven and in a suit he knew Neal approved of.

"Where are you off to?" Neal asked from an easy chair.

"I'm off on a date."

"Really? With who?" Neal was intrigued.

"Who do you think? Get dressed unless you want help." Peter's devilish grin took his friend by surprise.

"Flirtation. Peter Burke doesn't do that," he said as he went to the closet June had transferred his clothes into. He selected something and went behind a screen. He was getting stronger so the process didn't take that long. In the meantime, Neal was asking, "Do I get to pick where we go?"

"Sure, let's just make a stop first," Peter lied. When he saw Neal emerge from the bathroom, his short hair combed and tie in place, he could scarcely believe that this was happening.

He held out his arm. "I can walk by myself now," Neal said irritably.

"And I don't want to," Peter rejoined, pulling Neal's arm through his.

That shut up the younger man for a good few minutes. "Where are we going?" he asked in several different ways in the car.

"On a date, I told you," Peter said, finding parking near east 55th.

"Astor Court at the St. Regis Hotel. This is nice, Peter. I have to show you the Maxfield Parrish masterpiece, the King Cole mural they have hanging."

As Peter had hoped, the swank surroundings had a magical effect. The old Neal was instantly at the fore, telling him about the art, reminiscing about previous visits to the restaurant, along with some thinly veiled references to criminal acts. In return Peter told him about the office pool going around trying to figure out where he found Terence, and the hilarious observations the blunt groundskeeper had about life within the FBI.

"'Ya'll all walk a certain way. Did you know that?' he said to me. 'It's so much like the way a really paranoid person acts on the psych ward. You walk really straight so that nobody will think you're looking behind you, and then you look in every reflective surface to see what's behind you.' And he did a spot-on imitation of some of the more traditional agents."

Neal was laughing into the wine he was sipping slowly. "I dare you to show me," he said.

"What do I get if I do?" Peter challenged and then retreated from Neal's wide-eyed stare. "I'm going to the restroom. Watch and see."

Peter approximated Terence's imitation of the psych patient-slash-FBI agent all the way to the bathroom and back, not caring that he was drawing attention to himself.

He came back to a Neal who was still laughing. "He seems like a really smart guy, that Terence. The sort that I would pick out of a room as the one person not to try to con. You say you've talked all about me to him?" he transitioned suddenly.

"Yes, Terence talked me down from my bad trip, or I'm confident I would be a basket case today." He took out his card and motioned to the waiter. "Shall we go?"

Neal nodded slowly. "It's probably for the best not to push it. I don't want you to have to carry me out."

As they left, Neal was leaning a little on Peter's arm. Instead of walking out into the street, he steered them to the hotel's interior. "You lived in a hospital for so long, and I know how much that hurt your senses. This is my no-strings-attached gift to you—the opposite of an institution."

Peter led Neal up to the room whose key he'd retrieved while he was supposedly in the bathroom. There were fresh flowers and candles, just as he'd instructed. And wine. Creature comforts such as he hoped would draw out the rest of the Neal Caffrey that had retracted into himself due to illness and misery.

"I have an adjoining room in case you need me, but you can lock it if you prefer," he said quickly as he saw Neal doing the bed math.

"Have a glass of wine first," came the invitation, and Peter exhaled.

He opened the wine and Neal put on the television to an old movie. Casablanca. And they sat next to each other silently, but with their bodies observing each other. "I'm tired," Neal finally said. Peter got up. "Please stay." He sat back down and Neal pulled him down and curled up inside his larger body's curve. Looking straight ahead Neal said, "I have never felt so alone as when I was in the hospital, for all intents and purposes blind, restrained. Sure I was going back to prison. I never give up, Peter, and I wanted to give up."

Though Peter was facing his back, he knew Neal was crying somehow, and then he felt the body in his arms relax into sleep.

For an hour or so Peter reveled in the sheer joy of holding Neal until he finally dropped off to sleep himself. Soon he felt Neal stir. "Sorry, Peter, you can go back to sleep. I got used to cat naps in the hospital."

"Not on your life," Peter replied.

Slowly, slowly, Neal turned himself to face him. He looked at Peter very closely, and the older man finally realized that he was being looked at by Neal's artist's eye.

Neal finished unbuttoning Peter's shirt. He undressed Peter slowly, very slowly, stopping to examine and then moving, positioning.

Peter had never felt himself flow in someone's hands. He thought nothing. Not even to be ashamed at such unusual scrutiny. He let himself be posed when he was naked, secure that Neal would judge him justly.

"I did a pretty good job," Neal finally said. "On your portrait. Only when you see someone naked can you really tell if you got the face right."

"So now that you know what I look like naked, are you going to have to paint me again?"

"Since the first portrait almost cost me my life, maybe not." And then Neal's voice changed. "But I don't know what you look like naked."

"No?" Peter didn't feel like there were any exceptions left.

"No," Neal said in the same voice, and then moved his hands over Peter's naked chest. "There. Everything changes in a person when you touch them." He stroked Peter's skin, relaxing him, exciting him, and then fastening him with his blue eyes, he kissed him.

This was nothing like how any of Peter's fantasies had gone, but it was better. He felt the kiss down to his toes and in the roots of his hair. Then, Neal began talking again with that voice. Suggesting, merely. Gently moving Peter in a certain way, perhaps.

Peter had never been told what to do like this, and there was nothing dominant about it. It was Neal knowing what would feel good, and making up for his lack of strength. He took off his own clothes gradually, not because he was fatigued, but to allow himself to be appreciated.

Though he was still thin, Peter appreciated every inch of him with avid eyes. When Neal was finally nude, the larger man launched himself at him, enveloping him with his frame, kissing deeply, insistently, changing the tenor of their earlier motions into something proud and strong.

"Peter—" Neal began.

"Sorry, I've been waiting a long time for this," Peter fell back, self-conscious.

"I was going to ask if you want any help getting off, because you're about to do so on your own," Neal asked, running his hands on Peter's chest and back.

Peter allowed himself to be guided in motions he had never considered making until a few months ago, but now could scarcely contain himself while performing. Once he had some idea of what he was doing, Neal had Peter reposition them. This kind of sharing, an exact congruence, was mind-blowing, and the fact that it was Neal pushed him sharply ahead of the learning curve.

It was a race that ended in a draw, neither edging ahead even at the last.

"I wish I could draw you right now," Neal whispered after he had spent some minutes whispering how he felt during their encounter and eliciting Peter's specific responses. This new, verbal Neal was a wonderful discovery.

"I'll tell you when you ask me to do something I don't want to do," Peter said, sipping a glass of wine, unclothed and undone by that experience.

"I like Peter Burke, the flirt," his companion replied mischievously. "Now tell me the truth. Did you really rent another room?"

Peter stalked over to the adjoining room in a huff and threw open the door. "What do you take me for?"

"Come back, come back here," Neal said laughing. "I knew you did."

He made Peter feel richly rewarded all the same.

Afterwards, they ordered room service and sat eating omelets because it was closer to breakfast than anything else.

"I think it's safe to ask now, why?" Peter said, looking at his orange juice. "Why be with me when it never occurred to you before? Especially, why now when all this baggage with men has been dredged up for you?"

Neal took his glass out of his hand and forced Peter to look at him. "You and I are not the same, Peter. We both know this. You're a planner. You look before you leap. I go with the flow. For the last time, that doesn't make my life less deeply lived. Things just happen faster for me. This is what's happening now, and while I could have done otherwise, I want to see what happens. You have my curiosity. And that's a lot."

He went back to calmly eating his omelet. "If you don't want those potatoes, I'll take them."

Peter silently tipped his home fries onto Neal's plate, still chewing on that little speech. That's why he jumped when Neal said," And I get a question, if we're being fair."

"I think we've been doing well this evening with tit for tat," Peter mumbled.

Neal grinned and then got serious. "Why me? I'm positive that you were never with a man before," he caught the abashed look, "though I've always said you were a quick learner." He set aside his plate and took Peter's hand and placed it where he wanted it to be. "Where did the idea of being with me, arch-criminal, and a man, ever enter your head?"

Peter placed his lips on Neal's ear. "I went insane with jealously thinking of you being with that—that man. Really, Neal, I went out of my mind thinking that you preferred being with him to me. I know you like nice things, but you're a substance person at heart. And once I met the man," he shuddered. "My instincts had me on the rack all this time. I kept trying to think of ways to kidnap you and give you some perspective, to see that Scott was bad news."

Neal turned his head to say over his shoulder, "And to think it all started with your birthday present. All I wanted was to give you something genuine, no fooling around, something from the real me. Because you, unlike almost everyone, had earned it." He gave a few soft instructions to Peter. "Sad that I'll never finish that painting, because it was coming along."

"It's not my birthday yet," Peter panted, feeling very much like it was his birthday for the next several minutes.

They showered together, another new and engrossing experience, and then got dressed. They talked easily in the car and Peter helped Neal into the house. "Are you going back to Elizabeth now?" he asked, suddenly cautious.

"I sublet a studio short-term," Peter said in a more subdued tone. "I still visit Elizabeth. We have dinner at least once a week and talk every day. But you saw me last night, Neal. There's no way for me to avoid trying this out. We both owe it to ourselves to take it one day at a time."

Neal nodded. These occasional tests from him were nerve-wracking for Peter. "That's good, because you know part of me is on her side with this."

"I know. But I hope to have you over to my bachelor pad sometime soon."

The kiss Neal gave him was very promising.

In their team meeting on Monday morning Jones suddenly exploded, "Will someone please tell me the joke?"

"I'm not laughing," Diana protested.

"This subject here is no laughing matter," Terence agreed.

"I was just telling everyone before you came in that when I passed Hughes this morning he said, 'Looking good, Caffrey,' and I found it very amusing, coming from him." The four of them burst out laughing at Neal's re-enactment of that moment.

Jones piped down.

At break time, Diana grabbed Neal and Terence went after Peter, wanting to get the goods on the very full weekend that was apparently obvious through their poker faces.

"When I asked you months ago, you denied it," Diana was saying.

"I said neither yea nor nay," Neil protested at the coffee maker. "You know I hate people messing around in my personal life."

"You're going to need to put a tack in your shoe or something to wipe that grin off your face while you're at work," Terence said in the restroom after giving Peter a high five.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter said, looking in the mirror. "I look the same. I'm not smiling."

"Rein that aura in, or something, goddamn," Terence chuckled. "And it's not just you. Neal looks like he's wearing that suit instead of the suit wearing him for the first time since I met him."

"You think?" Peter was all ears. His telephone rang. An unknown number. He held up his finger and answered it. "This is Agent Peter Burke."

"Hello Mr. Burke." The nausea washed over him. "This is Prentiss Scott. I'd like to invite you to my home."


	15. Chapter 15

"There are conditions," Prentiss Scott's voice said into Peter's ear as he stood there in the restroom.

"Of course," he said politely while waving at Terence and mouthing "Scott," while pointing to the telephone. "I'll have one of my own."

"You come alone. No surveillance equipment, cameras, audio, etc.," the billionaire specified. His therapist was watching Peter's face intently.

"I have no problem with that." Naturally. If Scott were to say anything that Neal didn't want public, Peter certainly didn't want some FBI crew poring over it forever.

"And your condition?"

"No drugs."

Scott laughed. He laughed so long Peter began to get uncomfortable.

"Rest assured, Mr. Burke, should you choose to take tea with me, there will be no mother's little helpers in the cream."

After hanging up Peter blocked someone from coming in the bathroom so he could relay the conversation to Terence. "You okay with going back in there?" the latter asked.

"This is our chance to get answers; otherwise he can stonewall us indefinitely."

"All I'm saying is," Terence held him back from running out, "Number one, the man always has a game going."

The agent nodded impatiently. "And number two?"

"Flashbacks are more likely to occur in places where there are reminders of the initial psychedelic experience. So here's some things I do when I'm not sure something is real."

Two minutes later they emerged and pandemonium broke loose when Agent Burke shared the news of where he would be going at six o'clock that evening.

Though he clearly expressed Scott's conditions for the meet-up, he patiently endured the swarm of surveillance experts that were called in to try and slip something past the billionaire.

Then there were the legal experts chattering at him about the statements he needed to elicit in order to get probable cause.

Peter was only really interested in what one person had to say—the medical specialist.

Neal had gone home shortly after the call. Peter saw him briefly in the chaos and his slim friend seemed like a reed floating in a sea of FBI agents. Or one good suit among many bad ones, as Neal would say. Peter found out that Terence told Scott's victim that he had two choices—for the trauma reaction to hit him while he was at the bureau, or when he was somewhere else. Neal dashed out without anyone noticing he was starting to get shaky at the idea of anyone, but especially Peter, being near the madman.

Calmly, Peter pressed the buzzer to Scott's mansion with the tip of his pen. When he was allowed through, he pushed open the door with his shoe.

A maid he had never seen before was there to let him in through the second door, with Scott standing not far inside the corridor.

At the same time that the maid picked up a scanner and his host opened his mouth, Peter held a finger to his lips. He set down his pen and stomped on it. Then he lifted something out of his shoe and did the same. Next he took off his watch and smashed it.

Then he held out his arms and let the maid scan him using equipment he was unfamiliar with. The maid's instructions had been very thorough. She discovered a small audio device that had been attached to his shoelace, and another one that had been slipped in his breast pocket, both without his knowledge.

After these were destroyed, Peter finally spoke. "I wonder when they put those there."

"They seem to have been very determined to listen in," Scott observed.

"I don't think either of us would benefit from that," Peter said drily.

"Now your bag," Scott said brightly.

"You can look inside if you like, but then I'd like it back," the agent said.

The maid discovered the isolation jumpsuit along with a sealed package of latex gloves.

"Oh really!" Scott exclaimed. "Do you mean to put that monstrosity on in my home?"

Peter was already following crime scene protocol and stepping gingerly into the light blue coverall without touching the floor. He'd been careful not to have any skin contact with anything on the way in, and he put on a pair of gloves before zipping up the suit.

His flat gaze gave nothing for Scott to needle at, and his host threw up his hands. "I hardly consider that proper attire, but needs must."

The maid was sweeping up the remains of the bugs the FBI had insisted upon sending him in with, and Scott led the way down the hall to the viewing room.

Peter perched on an uncomfortable futuristic plastic chair he wasn't sure was intended for sitting. "If you don't mind," he said in a tone that said he didn't give a damn what the old man thought of his prudence about contact with porous surfaces.

"Have it your way," Prentiss Scott sniffed. "Since you're being so cautious, would you prefer to call in some members of my staff as chaperones?"

"That won't be necessary," Peter said evenly. "But I would like to know why you called me here today."

"I wanted to unveil them with you." The FBI man stared. "The portraits, of course, what brought us together."

"By all means," Peter said, trying some of the mental tricks Terence taught him so as not to punch the man for his faux civility.

"Why did you call me in to do what you could have done on your own at any point?" he continued while his host turned away to open the walk-in safe.

Scott grasped two canvases lying flat on the shelf and turned so that he could not see their surfaces while he slid them out, one behind the other. "Because you have been inside me and I have been inside you."

Peter was becoming accustomed to the nausea that house always aroused in him, but for some reason he was suddenly afraid of how Neal had depicted him.

"Yes, I'm a bit concerned, too," Scott agreed. "Young Caffrey really is a genius, you know, and they tend to see things a little too clearly."

He turned around the first painting with a flourish. It was unfinished.

The rendition of Peter and Neal in their tuxedos didn't have any arms, but the rest of them were complete. The look they gave each other could be deep friendship, could be something more. The canvas bore signs of different arm postures being erased.

"It seems to move, like I'm seeing a film on loop," Peter breathed, having completely forgotten why he was there.

"All good pieces of art are like that. Alive." Scott concurred. "He stopped his facial study of men who looked like you some time back, so i have reason to believe he's been debating about the arms for a good while."

"What is that?" Peter was peering at the background. "Is that—gold leaf?"

"No, that's a luminosity most painters only dream of mastering and Neal simply was born knowing how to do. That's why he can forge a Rembrandt."

Peter wasn't sure if he'd been exposed to a drug, or having a flashback, or what, but he felt like he and this lunatic were caught in a peaceful moment there in that room. He saw the man's hesitation.

"Would you like me to turn it around for you?" Peter asked kindly.

"Please," Scott said.

This one was much closer to being finished. Scott was there in an aged version of the younger press photos Peter had seen. One eyelid was drooping slightly, there were creases and fine lines, but he looked –harmonious, as if some atrocity hadn't scrambled whatever had gone awry in the present-day face paralyzed before the canvas.

The man in the picture had his eyes focused just above those of the viewer, as if someone he had thought he would never see again had just come in the room. The luminous quality was in this picture, too, a crack of light from a door that had just been opened falling over part of the face. There were several competing backdrops and chairs, giving the impression that Scott had been sitting there, immobile, while the environment changed around him.

"That's, that's better than I could have hoped," Scott wiped a tear from his assumed face.

"You had to drug him into seeing that in you," Peter observed placidly.

"Yes, quite." Prentiss Lloyd Scott smiled. "There are several substances, you know, the one you experienced on your last visit needing to be injected. But the one that encouraged Neal to stay is airborne."

Peter chose to think it was his FBI training and not the drug that made him take that news in stride.

"Yes, I and my staff partake of the antidote in our food so it doesn't affect us at all. The food here is so good no one relies on anything from outside very often, so even the staff who do not live in get enough to be immune."

Scott's guest nodded slowly.

"You were right about Neal sleepwalking through his work. It has a bit of a calming effect, depending upon the cocktail Tomas is using. it makes one—impressionable-which may lead to paranoia, sometimes slight alteration of the perceptions."

"You had Neal in the field under the influence? You have no idea that people actually risk their lives on a daily basis outside your lair." The insult came out too calmly to have the bite Peter intended.

"He was fine. This is based on a tried and tested calming remedy used in South America. It was a very light dosage that simply makes guests want to keep coming back to where things made sense, or never come back, as I so choose."

Scott's words seemed quite sensible to Peter.

"I know, it sounds petty, but you of all people, Mr. Burke should know about not wanting to let him go. I wanted young Caffrey to stay forever 10 minutes after he'd shown up at my door."

Peter felt his attraction for Neal roll over him and he pushed it to the back of his mind. His feelings were nothing like Scott's.

"Did you notice that this preparation does have a telltale sign? I thought you might have caught on to it. It causes the person to excrete a pleasing odor through the skin after they've taken it."

Neal's smell. Peter was crushed. He hadn't even been drawn in by a real smell. At some point he had started imagining Terence sitting in a nearby chair, and his therapist was shaking his head at him, telling him not to fall for his host's tricks.

Prentiss' voice was still talking. "The last time you were here you got a quick-acting LSD. With my suggestions you saw something horrifying in a rather dull video of you watching a video. I'm curious that you didn't do something rash at that point. It's a rather strong drug. Your wife didn't find you talking to the wall or anything?"

"No, it just so happens I was given something sedating by a-friend- and that must have taken the edge off it, but I was nauseous and knocked out for a good day."

"You were very fortunate. I didn't rule out anything that might happen at that moment."

Peter caught the emphasis. "You were that angry that I pretended to be you? Or you didn't like that I was on to you?"

"Perhaps a little of the second, but that you could swan about on the arm of Neal Caffrey, not even on your own power, but as me, whose identity is already fractured enough, and who wanted—" Scott caught himself. "Unforgivable. I even went after your wife, and I have a soft spot for wives."

Peter leaned forward and confided, "When I met you, Scott, I already hated you. Certainly I feared that you wanted a relationship with him. But you had given Neal what he most wanted-a home."

"You have it backwards, Agent Burke." His host looked around. "This mausoleum isn't a real home; it's a sanitarium with Rembrandts. You were the one but you gave him a home at the FBI, and the respect you always gave him, even as a criminal. You are sickeningly good, Peter Burke, and thus someone i might have targeted anyway. But even worse, but you are something I probably never was and certainly never will be again-a fertile environment that makes rare flowers such as Neal Caffrey flourish, with all the sun and air he requires. Even the conflicts and the suspicion are rare minerals he needs."

A pleased smile stretched across Peter's face without his being able to prevent it. He felt so happy he wanted to share it. "He really enjoyed his conversations with you Scott. I know nothing about art," he said generously,

Scott held up a hand. "Cunningly engineered."

"If you stopped playing these games you might find that people really care for you anyway, and stop punishing those who do care. That's something I suspected right off. Which is why I wanted to show you that Neal cared for me and was untouchable."

"It was a good move," the billionaire agreed. "You see, this is why i was very cautious of you, agent. From Neal's description he said you're very 'hail fellow well met' and underneath you have the mind and the will of a steel trap."

Another ripple of contentment about his relationship passed over Peter.

"But the two of you were so ridiculously unaware of each other sometimes it takes a jolt to wake you up," Scott was going on.

Peter sat up straight. This was similar to the conversation they'd had during his bad trip. "There's no way you could have engineered a runaway taxi and all of those factors," he cried. Terence nodded agreement.

"Ask yourself, have you ever seen our Neal drunk?"

It was another one of those moments where he felt his reality coming apart. Peter's mind reached for something to hold onto and thought about pineapple. He couldn't remember why it was significant, but it did the trick.

"Oh your face! How precious," the older man said. "Neal told me the story and I couldn't have planned it better, but all I had in mind was that the roofie I'd placed in your date's drink might get you two over some crucial barriers."

"Soldier, the moment you fell in love with Neal Caffrey may have been engineered by a psychopath and it may not! Are you going to let the squadron down?" a voice said in Peter's head.

"Anyone could see you were made for each other," Scott was saying. "What will become of you and Caffrey?"

"I have no idea. I'm fortunate to have been under very competent care and have made some decisions about what I choose to believe was real and what I do not, which I will not share with you."

Peter sent an apologetic glance in Terence's direction at his host's skepticism. "Don't give me that look. My therapist, whom you tried to frighten out of his wits, is one of the sanest men I've ever met most of the time. I would never let you speak to him for fear of what you could do to his equilibrium, but he might actually be able to help you see yourself."

"What school is he?"

Peter consulted with Terence. "Some classic psychoanalysis, with some cognitive behavioral techniques. He's a genius and if I ever hear of you harassing him or his other clients i will come down on you with the full force of the law."

"You remember your friends and pay your debts, Agent Burke. But believe it or not, though the balance sheet is long, so do I."

Peter felt the thrum of an engine kicking in but he wasn't able to understand what it was.

"Is that why you called me here today?" Peter asked as if it was of no importance. He'd forgotten why he was there, to be honest, and was looking for clues.

"Yes, actually. But first let me tell you a story." His listener sat back and made himself comfortable.

"When I first had my face done I was so depressed that Tomas was about to see me admitted to hospital. In order to distract me, he told me what servants did to entertain themselves, prisoners as they were within the lives of others. Nowadays it lends more towards steering employers into investments, but marriages have always been made and destroyed with servant help. Blackmailers have found their fodder. And servants talk from house to house, so several households at once could be made to fall prey to a confidence man who cut the servants in on the profits. All because these unseen people see and hear so much.

"This fascinated me, but I was still in a bad way. So Tomas started making little wagers with me. That he could make someone tell me that they were having an affair, the next time they visited. Or admit that her jewelry was mostly paste. And then he would do it. People began talking about the most astonishing things when they came to see me, and what made it even more interesting was hearing the long string of contacts and innuendos Tomas had expertly manipulated.

"Ever the systematizer, I wanted to learn this trick, and then when I learned it, to improve it."

"And that's when you thought of the drugs," Peter said, floating along on the effects of one.

"We thought of it together," Scott said eagerly. "Do you know that Tomas speaks five languages—his French is a dream—but he's such a naturally quiet man I didn't really know him. But our new enterprise had him opening up. He was telling me about the traditions passed along in his culture. You can't imagine the horrors people experienced under slavery, and I said something to the effect that I would have had a hard time not murdering the bitch who screamed at me every night to draw her bath."

"And he told you about the tradition of drugging their masters to make them less difficult," Peter filled in with a nod to Terence's chair.

"Yes, how did you ever know that?" Scott seemed genuinely thrown. "You are a force to be reckoned with. Well, that's what got me thinking about ways to more directly influence people, to really make it interesting. Otherwise all of the good bits take place offstage, as it were."

Peter opened his mouth and paused.

"By this time my network of influence naturally bumped up against that of others who were students of human behavior, as we call ourselves. As I recall, the news of a very well-concealed adultery broke just before I was going to reveal it, and it was only known to servants.

"And after some initial distrust, it occurred to us how splendid it would be to create rules, to compete, and most of all, to share how we managed to make the blowhard afraid to open his mouth, or the ultra-right wing man be exposed for his affinity with male prostitutes. There is a sort of justice at work you see."

Peter was fighting hard to hold on to the question he'd come in there with and lost during this long conversation. Damn. There it went again.

"Our little network started in the city, and in some places I traveled frequently. But to centralize something so subtle, to build the trust that there would be no reprisal. It took years. Seven years, specifically to have the world cup in our little sport."

"Why? Why did you do it to Neal?" Peter demanded. "Why nearly kill him? If the bacterial infection didn't get him, the long drug exposure and psychological manipulation might have! Was that the masterpiece you were going to submit?"

He sat back, breathing heavily. Those words had been slipping like an eel through his fingers for ages.

Scott's face caved in. "No, I should have ended it months ago, moved on to the next phase. Tomas has been telling me so: no one else has ever slept here, spent so much time exposed. Every day I told myself that if I saw the slightest effect from the drugs on him, I would stop, Never did I want to harm Neal, my gentleman caller."

Though he didn't get the Tennessee Williams reference, Peter was able to see a clear indication of an unbalanced mind in Scott's self-focused foppery. It brought him down a little.

"But that's just it. I couldn't let him go. He was my drug. I was utterly at the mercy of his showing up at my door. Aren't you?"

"Where is your butler, anyway?" Peter's mind had reassembled itself well enough to ask. "You're Tomas' employer, how do you know he isn't doing the same to you?"

"He's gone out to personally select some wines from an auction, as he does from time to time. And I don't know. I've considered it, naturally, but I've developed such respect for Tomas that I'm more than happy to be one of his works of art. He, for one, is not going to make me a luminous lie like Caffrey did."

"Neal is such a good liar because he hates dishonesty," Peter objected. "You should have turned him away when you saw what a special person had landed on your doorstep."

Scott poured himself a drink and sat back smiling over the tumbler. "You already made him a caged bird, Agent, I just transferred him to my cage. You understood me too well to be able to take the high road now."

"I kept him out of prison, an 8 by 12 cell and a yard full of sex-starved men wanting to rape him." A new idea came through the watery texture of Peter's brain. "And Neal put himself there, not me."

He never put it to himself so clearly. All along he'd been feeling guilty about the anklet. He relaxed a little and had to check his slow slide down the chair.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Scott said in a confidential tone.

Peter nodded eagerly.

"There really aren't any airborne drugs. What an idea! As you discovered, Neal did receive regular doses of all kinds of things, but you successfully evaded them this evening."

The FBI agent cocked his head, trying to grasp what he was being told. "You mean I'm not under the influence right now?"

"No! Whoever heard of some mysterious airborne compound with an equally mysterious antidote? You're having a pleasant conversation with your lover's tormentor only because we have so much to talk about."

"Soldier! You look neither the right nor the left, because Al Qaeda wants you to doubt yourself and stumble."

"Have you no soul? Go ahead, make my day."

"That man is going to tell you up is down and black is white, and when he does, remember me telling you this," Peter heard Terence's voice say while he began to fall down the rabbit hole once again after a little push from Scott.

"All it takes is one little push sometimes."

"Fine, have it your way," Peter said in something close to his normal voice. He was abruptly much closer to sober. "I'd like to see the breakfast nook."

"All right; it's a bit of a mess at the moment," Scott agreed, getting up and leading the way down to an unfamiliar wing. At one time, Peter's mind told him, it must have been a rather nice, older section of the house where you could have a coffee and your paper on a leisurely Sunday morning.

The rest of his awareness was screaming to run away.

Every surface was covered with photographs of people. And newspaper clippings. He could make out a termination letter for an employee. Several wedding rings. Foreclosure notices. Even a wanted poster.

Hundreds and hundreds of people covered every square inch of the space, and in his altered state—yes he was sure he'd been drugged—they looked at him imploringly.

It was a shrine to madness. Peter could think of nothing to compare it to besides his visit to the Holocaust museum. There was something similar in the depraved urge to collect others' misfortunes, to enumerate things that should never be treated as numbers. Peter saw graphs and charts and he couldn't be sure if they actually corresponded to some insane data system or if they were merely the scrawls of a madman.

In the middle was a large place cleared with its own gilt shelf, waiting.

Peter was sorry for the other lives, the ones he couldn't imagine how they were destroyed.

But to see the empty space where the life he loved was meant to hang like a shot buck-

"The world championship comes with a lovely trophy, you know. I had to make the space, so unfortunately I had to continue layering over people. They're several men deep in most places."

Peter felt the bile rising in his throat and told himself it was the drug.

"You're not looking well, Agent Burke. Are you sure you won't chance some tea if I drink some first?"

"I don't think we're made of the same stuff, so that would be irrelevant," Peter said.

"Metaphysical questions have always bored me," Scott pouted.

"You will never hang a photograph, a lock of hair, a piece of clothing, none of Neal, on that wall," the FBI man began reciting as if someone had told him this lesson long ago in preparation for this impossible moment. "If you do, rest assured, there is such a thing as justice in the universe, even for people like you. It works both ways, Scott—you pull a little string and someone loses their reputation. But the butterfly effect can also backfire on you. Inexplicable accidents can befall billionaire shut-ins, just like the rest of us."

Peter was talking in a monotone, almost bored, while unable to look away from the blank spot on the wall.

"He was on dialysis for two weeks. He had hallucinations for longer. They had his eyes bound and his arms tied. You may have robbed him of his mental and physical health, but worse, you stole his smile. You decided that just because you couldn't have that light as your own, no one could have it."

He towered over the old man in a young face as if the billionaire were shrinking with the confidence he was regaining.

"Mark my words, Prentiss Lloyd Scott, I will bring that light back, wherever it has hidden itself in him, I don't much care if he ends up with me, another man, a woman, or no one at all. This is one game you will not win."

"Mr. Burke," the little man said, "If there ever was a moment when I won, as you so crudely put it, it was long ago, the first time I met you, when you were clearly consumed by protectiveness and—jealousy. I am correct?"

"Yes." The word boomed out. There was no reason to hide it.

"You, with your long, complicated passionate tale with Neal, you who get to psychosexually torment each other at work and use your combined intelligence to accomplish things. You were jealous of me, the dowager spider in the gilded web, waiting for the next fly."

Peter wrested the control of the conversation back into his hands. This was important, they told you, don't forget.

"Why infect him with that horrible disease if you wanted him for yourself?"

This time Scott really did crumble. He hung onto one of the chairs stacked with clippings. "I didn't. I truly didn't know. It was an accident! I swear, such a gifted soul, a true artist, an aesthete! Bandaged and bound, what a tragedy."

The man sobbed as if he had suddenly relearned what the word meant.

Peter looked at him coldly. "I know for a fact you drugged me tonight, Mr. Scott, and I know why you made sure it was a strong dose. You were dying to tell someone about the art behind your little 'entry' but you're too cautious to tell your network you poisoned the well and the CDC and DEA are on to you—none of whom happen to be in love with Neal Caffrey, as far as I know, and thus not vulnerable to your games. Are you going to tell the chemists in your group, because there must be at least one, are you going to tell them the feds are all over the ingredients for DMT?"

"He wouldn't—I know Tomas wouldn't on purpose," the old man was repeating over and over.

"You don't know, do you? Are you the puppet or the puppeteer? Perhaps your butler is collecting the world cup right now for having given you your toy and taken it away."

He left Prentiss Lloyd Scott in that infernal breakfast nook, saying over his shoulder, "There is a precedent for allowing the testimony of someone under the influence into a court of law, I'll have you know! The earlier trip you sponsored actually works in my favor!"

On the way out Scott looked into the eyes of the maid and he was sure he could see the fear. He'd stalked half a block down the street before the FBI van pulled up. "Nice outfit," Diana pointed. He was still wearing his jumpsuit.

"Quick, quick, take my statement on the way to the lab to get blood drawn!" Peter exclaimed, extricating himself from the jumpsuit with some difficulty.

"Boss, I just have one question to ask you first," Jones said deadpan.

The strains of Jimi Hendrix's "Are You Experienced?" filled the van along with all the agents' giggles.

"Look at your pupils, look!" Someone passed Peter a mirror and then had to take it away because his appearance was so fascinating for a moment.

"All right now, I'm still your superior officer, and I command you, take my statement now, so it can be compared to the one I make tomorrow when I'm, er, more composed."

The agents stopped joking when he described the extent of this "hobby" of Scott's. "We've got to get a warrant and trace all of those faces," Jones said.

But it wasn't going to be that simple, and Peter, even in his half-altered state, knew it. The first trials were having to give his statement and then be looked over by the bureau doctor, who wanted to admit him to the hospital.

"I passed all your psych questions, doc, please don't put this on my record," Agent Burke begged.

"Well, if you understand the ramifications of an admission right now, I suppose I shouldn't force you to go," she said. "But depending on these lab results we might be having this conversation again tomorrow."

It was past midnight when Peter called Neal from the taxi. "I'm coming over," he said.

"What? Peter? Are you all right?"

"Absolutely fine, tip top, ship shape," he said. "But I don't think I should be alone right now."

The cabbie shot an anxious glance into the rearview mirror.

"I don't think I should either; I've been so on edge waiting to hear that you're all right," the most wonderful voice in the world sang in his ear for a long moment.

"Oh-that was-very nice Neal." He caught another type of look in the mirror. "I should hang up. I'll see you in 20 minutes."

Some time went by, and then Peter's phone rang.

"Peter? Are you still in the cab?"

"No, Neal."

"Where are you?"

"Outside your door."

"Did you think of ringing the doorbell?"

"I couldn't remember where it was," a shamefaced Peter said as he was let inside.

Neal had to drag him upstairs with his hands over his guest's mouth to quiet the laughter. "What's gotten into you?" His host began and then stopped to look into his eyes. "Are you—tripping?"

The drug seemed to be getting a second wind in Peter's system now that he was with someone he knew well, and he collapsed on the couch to laugh until he cried. "This is an illegal substance!" he said, finally, sitting up. "And I work for the FBI!"

Neal had taken him by the hand and was taking off his clothes "Wow, that's exciting," Peter said, but Neal's expression was serious. The larger man let the smaller one scrub him thoroughly in the bath. "We used to do this to my dog Otis when he got into a skunk," he laughed.

Neal didn't crack a smile until he seemed convinced that some essence of the man and the mansion had been removed.

Peter escaped from the towel and started pawing through Neal's art. "Where is it, where did you put it? This is the one!" He produced a small abstract that Neal had showed him several days ago. "I like this blue. It reminds me of your eyes. Before I left, Terence told me to go in there with some things I liked and could trust in mind, and I thought of this painting, and you."

Neal made a show of giving up about the towel, about everything. "All right, Mr. Naked Art Critic, what else do your altered senses see in my artwork?"

They proceeded to argue and laugh while going through all of Neal's artwork for the next hour. But mostly laugh. Peter couldn't remember why it was so special that Neal was laughing, but he looked shyly at the man who was posing him for a sketch.

"I need to capture this facial expression for posterity," Neal was saying. "What? What's the matter?"

"Neal, Neal, Neal," Peter said, inching forward on his naked knees towards his companion. "You're so, I mean to say, that you're very—"

"This is going to be good," Neal paused with the charcoal between his fingers. "I'm what, exactly?"

"You're a gift," Peter settled on. Before the unconvinced expression from Neal, he continued, "You're like the Swiss Army Knife of gifts. You know about art, and about wine, about food, about all nice things." There was little left to the imagination of what Peter meant as he rubbed against Neal like a cat.

"You don't know what you're saying. You're stoned out of your gourd. You can't know what you want right now. I'll bet you don't even remember this conversation tomorrow—which is very soon, by the way."

Peter drew back, offended. "That is not true! Terence says that nobody can drug somebody into thinking they're in love."

He studied the rapid change in the blue eyes. "Did I say something wrong? No, I'm sure that's what he's said. Let's ask him tomorrow. I bet you he'll say he did, and I raise you that I'll remember this conversation. You can test me on it."

Neal was taking off his own clothes. "Shut up."

He attempted to bring Peter's heightened senses to the brink, and it would have been very easy to succumb to those artistic fingers and gentle suggestions. But Peter hadn't let both feet off of reality all night, and he wasn't about to start.

"Together," he said. And he was sure it wasn't the drug that made him melt into Neal. Because Neal was taking the same unselfconscious pleasure from their motions. "Oh, Neal," came the long moan before the long, long descent from the precipice. He could scarcely believe how lucky he was to have this person in his arms, to be about to hurtle down the hill with him.

"Peter."

They threw themselves into the gravity together. It was the first time Neal had said his name while making love, and they were both exhilarated by a taboo crossed.

Neal let Peter sleep in, or perhaps he wasn't able to rouse him, because Peter woke up at 10:30 to the repeated, insistent tone from his telephone.

"Damn it, I'm coming in today, I told you. Can't I be late for once in my career?" he grumbled.

"Who? He's dead?" Peter sat up. "I'll be there in—" he had the presence of mind not to give the estimate of how long it would take from Neal's apartment. "I'll be there. Right away."

Peter stopped to savor last night for a moment before he had to become an FBI agent who deals almost exclusively with the non-beautiful parts of life. He took a shower whistling, and wasn't sure if it was because Neal said his name last night, or because he really laughed, or because Prentiss Lloyd Scott was dead.

There was a note on the table by the door. "Consider this a test."


	16. Chapter 16

"What did you say to our boy?" June stopped him on his way out.

Though he trusted her completely, Peter did feel a bit odd coming down the stairs and seeing her in the morning.

"Nothing, I mean nothing bad. Did he say something to you?" Peter asked.

"He seemed—thoughtful—not his usual self, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right. Not that anything has been normal for him for awhile."

Peter must have looked stricken. "Neal has a normal, too, and needs to be shaken out of it occasionally. I was only wondering, not meaning to pry."

Peter dashed down the stairs and rushed to work. When he finally walked into the FBI an hour and a half later, he was hoping to discreetly duck into his office so he could change his suit, since he only had a shirt and tie at Neal's, but- "There he is!"-he was enveloped in the chaos that had been brewing since the early morning hours.

A coffee and a handful of vitamins was handed off to him by Diana on his way into Hughes' office, no doubt supplied by Neal, who was nowhere to be found. "Legal" he thought he saw her mouth before the glass doors closed on him.

"Consider yourself lucky you slept in, Agent; up until a little while ago you were a suspect."

"What?" Peter almost choked on the vitamin. He was more concerned with having to use Neal as his alibi than anything else.

"The security footage was erased and no one saw Scott after you left last night, but the time of death was hours later—they think more like midnight, and the body was discovered around five. Early word has it that the place was like Fort Knox, and only someone with a code could have gotten in, which leaves you out."

It must be the after-effects of the drug, because Peter's brain was absorbing disparate facts unusually well this morning. "I don't think I was in any shape to mastermind a break-in last night, boss." Hughes peered over his spectacles. "Though my testimony still stands."

His supervisor began reciting the facts while the coffee—strong gourmet stuff from down the street, thank you, Neal, did its work.

At 5:45 one of Prentiss Lloyd Scott's live-in servants, Imelda, was starting her shift in the kitchen when she heard a telephone ringing. Since Scott is on the phone at all hours to different time zones, she didn't think anything of it. But it rang and rang, and when she went into his office, he wasn't there.

Knowing he'd had some type of altercation with the FBI ("What altercation? He made sure I was calm?" Peter interjected) the day before, the maid worried that he'd gotten himself too excited. The help were apparently worried about Scott's mental health—more than usual. When Imelda couldn't find her employer anywhere, she woke some of the others. They had long been forbidden to go into the breakfast nook, which the butler took personal charge of, but that was the last logical place, and that's where they found him.

"Where is that butler in all of this?" Peter queried, but his supervisor held up his hand.

"Scott was neatly dressed in a formal suit, sitting with his head on the table. A bottle of strong barbiturates, the kind you can't get easily anymore, was on the table, half-finished, along with some fine champagne and a glass.

"So we can trace all of those pictures!" Peter said excitedly.

"There were no pictures, Burke. None but his," Hughes said placidly. "You sure you didn't hallucinate them?" He edged out a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. "You must have had quite the trip last night, but you look fresh as a daisy. I'm going to make a note that you can train junior officers about withstanding the effects of involuntary intoxication."

"Sir, what picture did they find?" Peter was too much in a knot to let his boss have his fun.

"Scott's, of course. It had been hung on the wall. A painting that matches Caffrey's description of the one he was working on."

The phrasing seemed odd. "What do you mean, 'it had been hung'? Scott hung it himself, of course. It must be a suicide."

"Now we're leaning in that direction, now that we've managed to get a peep out of his lawyers. At first, with every scrap of video and audio surveillance erased in that house, a whole section of Scott's personal computer files erased or corrupted, and no fingerprints to be found on anything, we naturally looked towards the butler, who was last seen around noon.

"It seemed quite possible that this slippery character, Tomas Maria Mendonça, could have convinced him to do it. He never showed up at that wine auction, so we assume he's already out of the country—agents are going through all international departures looking for someone of his description."

"He could have convinced Scott to kill himself before our meeting," Peter suddenly put into place a comment from last night's conversation. "He was talking about a long balance sheet he was going to make right, although, come to think of it, maybe the last thing Scott did was frame the butler by wiping his prints. Those two had a sick relationship.

"Yes, you mentioned that about the balance sheet in your statement." Hughes flipped to another paper. "Which is what kept NYPD from jumping the gun and knocking on your door with an arrest warrant. Everybody knew you didn't like the guy."

Peter thanked the universe that NYPD didn't knock on Elizabeth's door and not find him there, and then subsequently not find him in his studio and keep following the clues until he tracked down Peter, wound naked in Neal's sheets.

"You see, there was one other thing in the room. This." The old agent had been searching through the mess on his desk and pushed across a thick sheaf of papers. "Photocopies are also with Legal. The dates on all these documents are weeks ago, around the time we found Caffrey in the hospital. They all seem perfectly rational, and they leave Neal Caffrey the bulk of Prentiss Lloyd Scott's fortune." Peter just missed spitting coffee on himself. "It may take months to sort out the complications, but preliminary opinion down in Legal is that the money may eventually reach your CI."

Self-preservation was still nagging at him. "At the very least this proves premeditated suicide?"

"The lawyers for the deceased won't say much to us, but they will say that the dates on the documents are correct and they swear by his mental state. There's one section we're most interested in." He handed some pages over. "A 501c 3 foundation, set up with all its I's dotted and t's crossed around the same time, with its purpose—"

"'To assure the wellbeing of anonymous worthy causes,'" Peter read. "The word 'anonymous' appears all over the articles of incorporation. This is his correction on his personal balance sheet. These are his victims."

"With nothing but ashes to sort through from his incinerator, and that looking like melted surveillance footage, we believe this is our best shot at making the connection. But Scott's legal team appears disposed to fight us tooth and nail if we try to make them divulge the identities. Caffrey has a better hope of becoming a billionaire. It's a huge pot of money, but Neal could stand to end up with a couple of billion himself if the state doesn't garnish it."

"Did the state nearly die from leptospirosis? Was the state used as a guinea pig for drug experiments?" Peter took a deep breath and concentrated on one of his other axes to grind. "If law enforcement has been inside, they had to have found drugs."

Hughes shrugged. "It's complicated. Everything that they have found in the first sweep is too obscure to be illegal. Not that that wouldn't hurt your statement from last night Burke, but there is nothing like prepared DMT so far that would complicate the legal standing of Scott's assets with a drug charge. The staff is being tested for the bacteria, but medical says they would have it by now. The help seemed totally shocked by the appearance of DEA when they called 911."

Under a carefully blank façade, Peter's mind was threatening to go to pieces again. "You mean, he's probably going to be remembered as a slightly eccentric billionaire philanthropist, and not a bored sadist?"

Hughes turned his monitor around so Peter could see. CNN had its ticker at the bottom of its news screen, and it said "PRENTISS LLOYD SCOTT, BILLIONAIRE PHILANTHROPIST FOUND DEAD, SUICIDE SUSPECTED, GLOBAL EMPIRE SHAKEN."

"One thing that White Collar does have good intelligence on is Scott's business assets. He's been gradually handing the daily handling of his business over to assistants for years now. The conferences and activities Caffrey said he witnessed don't at all correspond to what we've found out about Scott's involvement. He must have been doing something else with his time." Hughes attempted a smile. "I believe you, Burke. Somewhere in his travel patterns, we'll find a link to this gaming group you described."

"You didn't tell me you found that," Peter looked up. "Why didn't you tell me you found something to substantiate my claims?" Hughes returned his gaze evenly. "You wanted Neal to go back in there. You knew that he was the only bargaining chip the bureau had, and you were waiting for him to recuperate enough to send him in that madhouse, and you didn't want my team to object on safety reasons," he said calmly.

"Well, it didn't turn out to be necessary, so all our investigations into Scott have converged," his supervisor said with emphasis.

"Did you really think I left him dead last night?" Peter asked, his trust level with the FBI having taken a bettering during this conversation.

"Me? No. If you wanted to kill the bastard, you would have shot him,," Hughes replied.

"Thank you sir, I think," Peter muttered as he was ushered out. He was still standing outside the glass, stunned, when Hughes poked his head out.

"Where's that profiler of yours? Brass is pleased by the job he did and has other work for him."

"I'll find out," Peter said. Only after he got back to his office, which took fighting through several rapid-fire conversations, could he check all of his messages.

"My apologies, Agent Burke, but I have a patient here at Bellevue who simply won't let me rest until I call his emergency contact, which he says is you. If this isn't some sort of mistake, please give me a call, Amelia Burroughs, head nurse, Psychiatric Department."

All through last night's ordeal, Peter had been dying to tell Terence how right he'd been about Scott's manipulation, the drugs and the effectiveness of his calming techniques. How selfish he'd been through all of this! Peter was so focused on Neal and the investigation, he'd apparently missed his therapist having his own psychiatric crisis under his nose.

He sat in his office, taking a breath. People were lining up outside his door but he gave the "give me five" signal. He picked up his landline. "Hello, can I speak with Nurse Burroughs, please? Yes, this is Agent Peter Burke with the FBI."

While he listened to some technical explanation of the patient's condition he couldn't follow, Peter was texting Neal. "I remember everything, but unfortunately Terence can't back me up because he's in the hospital. Are you okay?"

The frenetic energy he'd been trying to avoid finally spilled into his office and engulfed Peter Burke, so not until several hours, a polygraph, and a detailed psychological and physical evaluation later did he check his messages again. "I'm either a billionaire or the state is considering confiscating all my goods down to my hat, but the good news is you didn't fail."

It was something less than a pass, Peter thought all day. Late that evening he went to Bellevue. A flash of the badge at every juncture soon had him in the psych ward. "It's after visiting hours," the nurse peeked through the locked door even after she saw his badge, with a tone as if he'd committed a mortal sin.

"Terence has been a key person in an investigation we've been leading. I'd like to confer with him on recent developments."

Finally the nurse relented and he was buzzed through. "We'll bring him into the visiting room, but I have to warn you—" The nurse gave them a more comprehensible summary of Terence's condition than the head nurse had. Apparently October was a bad month for him, and he was often hospitalized at that time of year, something about change of seasons. "He probably won't be making much sense until we can get him back under control."

Feeling the dismal atmosphere beginning to affect him, the FBI agent sat where indicated in a cheerless room with outdated magazines and furniture that was bolted to the floor.

"Excuse me, while I kiss the sky!" Terence bellowed out the Jimi Hendrix verse with an illustrative jump reaching into the sky by way of greeting.

"Hey, Terence," Peter said, slapping him on the back.

"What's goin' on?" Terence sang like Al Green.

"The FBI wants to hire you again but we've got get you out of here first—" Neal began.

"You're going to turn my brown eyes blue," the patient switched gears unexpectedly into the Crystal Gale song.

The nurse had told him earlier this was how his friend communicated when he's manic—everything was a song lyric.

He stayed a few minutes, sharing the very basics of what had transpired in the last 24 hours, with Terence responding in song. Peter began to thank his therapist for all the techniques that stood him so well during his conversation with Scott, but Terence kept interrupting by singing "Are You Experienced?"

"They sing that at the bureau everywhere I go now," Peter laughed. "Listen, Terence, there's something I want to discuss with you."

"Stop, listen, what's that sound, everybody look what's going 'round."

"You're not in any state to sign it today, but I left something with the nurse. It's power of attorney, so I can try and set something up for you besides that group home to go back to. You don't need hygiene class and people taking care of your money, you just need a little help. Will you think about it, when you're well enough, and sign the temporary order? Once we get you sorted out, you can tear it up and tell me to go to hell if you want to."

"Always on my mind," Terence sang like Willie Nelson.

His visitor reached in his pocket and produced a paper bag. "Nurse Ratchet in there took the rest for safekeeping, but she let you have one for now."

Terence jumped up and did an improvised dance to the Jimmy Buffet song about pina coladas, and then needed help before his shaking hands could open the plastic cup of pineapple with a plastic spoon.

Peter smiled at the happiness the gift brought his friend in the blank institutional setting. When he was done, the nurse appeared at the doorway. As he was let out of the ward the woman said, "Sad, isn't it? The ones who were institutionalized often seem to have picked up the songs they heard piped in over the radio, or else they quote commercials they saw on TV."

"Just please make sure you don't lose those papers. You have my number if anything comes up," Peter said brusquely so he didn't give the woman a tirade. It had been a long day, and she'd never believe how Terence was usually able to use his experiences to help others. Peter wasn't sure he could say the same about his own lack of mental clarity some days.

Peter went back to his place and gave a brief update to Elizabeth before falling asleep early. He dreamt that Neal had to give away the money and then steal it back before he felt good about it.

The news that NYPD had jumped on Peter as a suspect was cause for a sobering conversation between the men. "I may never get this money, Peter, and I sure as hell don't want some of these humorless pricks running me ragged for the next two years," Neal said with his hands in Peter's hair while they were in bed that Saturday morning.

"Then being known as so invested in you I'd murder for you is not the way to keep you on my team," Peter said. "You're the expert in subterfuge. You tell me what to do."

He saw clear signs that this interested Neal very much. "We're playing a con together!" he said excitedly, and outlined a seemingly random schedule that would keep Neal's tracking data looking like he was doing innocuous things like going to museums with part of his spare time, and thus take the focus off the time he spent at home.

"You're kind of into being on the same side with me on this," Neal observed.

"I want to be able to see you occasionally at work, though you're right about volunteering to get off this Scott case 24-7. Maybe we can still go out to dinner with Diana and Suzette as an alibi."

"That's actually a good bet with the wedding coming up. Hopefully they're the only ones who know for sure."

Neal was dismayed to receive a reminder that someone else knew about his relationship. Elizabeth asked him to come by during the day whenever he could get away that week, and he couldn't think of a reason to say no.

"Thanks for bringing it by, Neal. I wanted to have everything ready for Peter's birthday, and you know I overplan—force of habit from my business," Elizabeth said, taking his coat. "You look frozen. Have some tea," she suggested as he followed her into the kitchen with a flat box in his hand.

"Elizabeth, we haven't—"

"No, we haven't, and now is the time." She set the kettle on to boil and laughed. "You look like you're about to make one of your getaways."

"I don't think I've ever wanted to more than this moment," he admitted, standing awkwardly.

"Let's put this right here," she set the painting against its own chair at the table, "Because that's what started it all. I did this, Neal, not you."

Her guest sank into a chair, looking dazed.

"Here, have a cookie."

He had a cookie, eyes watchful.

"You know that I was an art student and often speak fondly of that time in my life, but you don't know the full reason why," she began.

"My last year of college I dated two men. Brian and Sam. I dated them at the same time."

Neal nodded. The kettle shrieked and she prepared the tea.

"It worked out very well. People thought only Sam and I were together, and only the three of us knew about our unique arrangement." She shrugged. "We went our separate ways after graduation. It was one of those things that happens once in your life, if you let it happen, but doesn't exist outside of college.

"There have always been three people in my marriage. Me, Peter, and the FBI. And the FBI gradually became Neal Caffrey. I'm someone who needs her own mental space, so that was always fine. Peter has his cases, I have my business, we both need to feel needed by our job, and then our home life together is a sanctuary."

"I've told you before that I'd like to paint your breakfast table, because the collection of things is always a perfectly balanced still life," Neal said to say something.

"You see, Neal, we'e had this conversation before without having it aloud. When you and Peter were playing your games and you sent him birthday cards while on the run, you knew you had captured his attention. And you were letting him know he had your curiosity as well. We have an understanding. You have your part of Peter and I have mine. We've coexisted."

Neal began, "I'm so sorry—"

She waved off the apology. "I don't know at what point I started to see leakage. When Peter talked not only about the crimes you solved together, but who you were? The hurt when you betrayed him? But when I started hearing your name in his sleep. That was hard to ignore."

Neal winced. "He's a regular chatterbox, isn't he? I'm listening for what he's got on his Christmas list."

"And Peter hates lies. But he's helpless, you know, a brave man and also a timid one in some ways. He had no idea that your relationship had grown outside its assigned area, and he had no tools for confronting it."

Neal looked at the painting in the chair. "And the portrait was your attempt to show him what he couldn't see?"

"That, and I thought it would be a chance for you to spend some time together without being face-to-face. Peter is one of those men who talks best when you don't corner him. I thought he could sit for you a few times."

"Like a date?"

"Not exactly, but without your normal distractions like bullets and people listening in." She looked up coyly. "As you may have experienced, Peter has a coil of fire inside of him but it's not easy to access."

"I now understand why you seemed so contented for several reasons," Neal smirked back.

She giggled. "He builds up long and slow before he trusts you, but once that connection is made, he just keeps on giving. I knew he had reached the point of no return about you a ways back, and I would lose my marriage to it if I stood in his way or let him lie to me about it.

"When you ended up getting so obsessed about the portrait, and then Peter was consuming himself over that awful man, I felt like I released a monster instead. The more Peter told me about his suspicions that Scott was manipulating you, the worse I felt about what I thought was a gentle nudge towards the inevitable.

"It's nothing like what you've been through, Neal, but I've spent my own little bad time feeling responsible for all of this." She released a small sob. "I didn't know how to take it back, and no one could understand my selfish plan to recapture a setup that couldn't ever happen outside of art school."

For a moment Neal looked thrown and then recovered. "There, now, Elizabeth. If you put Spanish fly into cookies and served them to me and Peter with the intention of forcing a ménage a trios, that would be one thing. You wanted the two of us to re-evaluate our relationship because the swallowed subtext was so deafening it was literally keeping you up."

She nodded and blew her nose into a tissue.

Neal took her hand. "You did a good thing. If fate hadn't intervened, I would have merely done a long-overdue soul-searching about myself as an artist, and then hopefully gotten to Peter next. I hadn't painted seriously in years before you commissioned me. You knew I needed more than being just the FBI's trick pony."

"See, Neal, we've always understood each other. You've never seen me as just Peter's wife. We had our own friendship, I thought, and I hope however this turns out we'll always have a version of that."

He fidgeted and tried to change the subject slightly. "I'm glad we're having this talk because Moz cares for both of us and has stopped talking to either of us for fear of taking sides."

"Is it good? Something you'd invest in if I weren't in the picture?" she pursued.

"Elizabeth, I, yes. It's that combination of excitement and trust that keeps getting better and better. There is so much more to Peter than what meets the eyes." She laughed naughtily. "I didn't just mean in that respect although, let's be honest. He has no idea what he has there, does he?"

Elizabeth shook her head no. "I've had friends that don't understand why I put up with the crazy schedule and the danger. My father thinks Peter must have slipped through some IQ standard at the FBI. If nothing else, I'm so glad to have someone else who understands."

Neal snorted. "A mind like that? There are strangely more ways to miss the real Peter Burke than there are ways to miss me, the man of a thousand faces, or you, Elizabeth, much more than a wife Burke. You see everything and keep quiet about it." He laughed shortly. "It's hard to be here because of it."

"And sometimes I regret it." She dabbed at her eyes. "The one time I act on what I see—well, let's just say I've been to six therapists and have had to fire them all when the subject of a nontraditional arrangement came up."

"Are we talking about arrangements now?" Neal lost all his relaxation. "You get Thursdays, I get Tuesdays?"

"No!" she protested.

"You mean we can do whatever we like as long as it's up there," he pointed to the bedroom," all three of us? I don't work well with rules, Elizabeth, especially in my intimate life. "

"I'm not saying it will be exactly the same. But when I was in school, things flowed. Sometimes it was two of us, sometimes three. There was no counting the number of days, no ganging up on each other. We were in a relationship but there were three of us. There was trust, just as already exists between the three of us, or else we wouldn't have been existing politely these past couple months."

Neal tensed. "You and Peter have been—?"

"No, no, sorry, I didn't mean to give you that impression. I only meant that I didn't hit you on the head with a frying pan when you walked in the door, and I hope we can continue to be civil with our separate residences and no one the wiser."

"Phew, good. Because I'd hate to have to choose between giving up Peter and my apartment," he said, trying to hide the true reason for his relief.

"No, and if I may speak plainly, there's another reason you might want to consider trying to coexist, the three of us in some fashion."

"I thought we were already speaking plainly," Neal said, unnerved at what might be next.

"They'll find out. The FBI, they always do. Up until now, everyone's been concerned about you and Peter naturally stepped up as the one to look after you."

"The FBI doesn't allow dating on the same team, not even in the same division," Neal said. "Yes, we have an excuse for why I'm at his place, and I don't stay long—always some redecorating project or something. I never spend the night with him because of this"—he showed her the GPS. "Someone must check it."

"Peter spends the night at your place. The chances are slim that someone could know right now, but the point is, you would no longer have your arrangement. And right now the FBI is trying very hard not to think of you subtly changing status, because the prison system still thinks of you as—"

"A no-good grifter. Yes, we've talked about all this. They're only keeping me around and playing nice because they'll want me to go undercover to bust these gaming rings."

Elizabeth was aghast. "They wouldn't After all you've been through?"

"We're hoping to make a deal. One last time and I'm free. Then when my dirty money comes through from that bastard, I can paint all day, and see Peter as often as he wants at night. Gradually we'll go public.

"Neal, I don't want you going undercover," Elizabeth persisted.

Her guest seemed touched. "Don't worry. The new almost-billionaire me has lawyers on spec. A whole team of them trying to figure out a way to say that the FBI screwed up by not monitoring the company I kept, getting me sick, but in a way that doesn't fall back on Peter. You see the rub. There's a good chance that no one will do anything and the two years will run out on my sentence with no one but Diana any worse for wear as she fights to ignore the nearly fatal levels of sexual tension between us."

"You worry. I know you do. Somewhere. Now that you have a sort of anchor in your life I can see it more. A near-death experience sometimes helps," Elizabeth said, peering into his eyes.

Neal ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, I worry that now that I have something I'll lose it, like I always do. Or that Peter will get tired of art lectures and-the other things we do together." He suddenly seemed to realize how openly he was talking about his emotional and sexual bond with Elizabeth's husband, and retreated into himself.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Elizabeth laughed and arranged his hair.

She drew him into a hug, and despite himself, Neal found himself saying into her hair, "I need him so much Elizabeth. I've seen the worst side of human nature, and then there he is, sort of hulking there, brooking no resistance, being Peter. I don't want to need anybody like that."

"I know, but you and I, we know that life can't be controlled, merely directed sometimes."

"Peter knows about all of this?" he asked suddenly, extricating himself.

"Yes, we had a talk sometime back when you were in Chicago. You should have seen him trying to put three and three together when I told him the real story about art school!"

They laughed. It was becoming easier.

"Consider this drink and hors d'oeuvres on Saturday for Peter's birthday to be one hour, no expectations. We spend sixty minutes eating crudités, the three of us. If it's hideously awkward, you two run away and we never have to do it again. You can salvage the evening by doing anything you like for his day—I'll have discharged my birthday duty."

"Peter doesn't want to go out. We were going to spend the rest of the time at my place."

"Mm. Hmm.' Elizabeth said.

It was Neal's turn to fix his host with his piercing eyes. "Do you miss him?"

"Yes, but the old Peter Burke is gone. This is a game changer, being with you Neal. I'm looking forward to meeting the new Peter Burke-in-progress on Saturday. I don't think change is necessarily bad."

She stood up and opened up the box. Neal helped her slide out the framed painting.

Peter and Neal stood there in a finished version of what he had labored over at Prentiss Scott's place. Their arms were around each other loosely as if they were just separating after a hug. The electricity was there, and the solidity he was discovering together with the FBI agent.

"Where's the other one?" Elizabeth asked sagely. "There's more that didn't make this picture."

"That one was for Peter only," Neal said tensely, blushing. "He'd have to decide to show you." He took the opportunity to head to the coat closet. "Thank you for forcing me to get over my fear of talking with you Elizabeth. I can only hope to deal with Saturday as gracefully as you will."

"You're doing fine," she said. "Maybe because I never kept a file on you, it was never news to me that you're an actual human."

She helped him on with his coat. "Speaking of, the role playing must be out of this world."

"Cops and robbers doesn't begin to describe the extent of it," he said lightly.

But when he went over to Peter's that evening, he had the FBI agent cuffed and on the floor in a second. "I'm arresting you for breaking statute 100-45-R3 of our relationship, which says you never discuss intimate details like role-playing with someone else."

Peter launched the full weight of his body against his smaller partner. "I didn't, officer," he protested, not sure if he wanted to resist this arrest or not.

"That's 'agent' to you, scumbag, and how did Elizabeth know then?"

"Elizabeth, I—didn't tell her." That was the last talking Peter did for some time.

One day, as a joke, Neal had picked Peter's pocket of his handcuffs and ambushed him as soon as he came in the door. It was bound to happen, given their history, but neither of them could be prepared for the engrossing urgency with which they pursued each other, switching roles fluidly, knocking over furniture in pursuit.

Peter's bachelor pad was now literally padded on every surface so as to minimize the complaints from the neighbors. "Were we feeling this on some level the whole time we were working together?" Neal asked breathlessly some time later. "Because it scares me how much I enjoy this." He grinned. "If I could only find a fetish supplier that stocks fake tracking anklets…"

"This isn't the only side to us," Peter said seriously, thinking of the brief conversation he had with June. "Are you ready to be the strong one tomorrow at my birthday event with Elizabeth?"

"I'm terrified. At least I can hang on to you the whole time for support." Neal winced. "That might be awkward."

"She's been amazing through all this, we need to be big boys about this birthday thing," Peter said, engulfing Neal in an embrace. "She could have burst into the FBI in a housecoat, screaming about you being a homewrecking slut."

They had a good laugh over that incongruous image. "You have quite the imagination, Peter Burke. I never realized." Then Neal turned serious. "My mind tends more towards thinking that Elizabeth is going to put some paralytic in the dip and give us the ol' stock and pillory treatment."

"You do realize that those were two separate implements of punishment," Peter droned, and they forgot the impending meet-up for a little while longer by switching roles.


	17. Chapter 17

"Are you sure about this?" Peter asked.

"No, I want to run in the opposite direction," Neal muttered as they walked up to Peter's old house for his birthday cocktail party with Elizabeth.

"No, I mean the wine. Red seems so—passionate, and maybe it's insensitive, considering."

"Sorry, Peter, I can pick a wine to go with anything from paté to paella, but the one thing I never learned the etiquette for was what to bring to my boyfriend's wife on the occasion of his birthday."

Peter's mouth dropped open at Neal's first attempt to describe their relationship, and then the door opened.

"Hello, very special birthday boy and his equally special guest," Elizabeth said. "I made margaritas!"

While their hostess took their coats, Neal and Peter exchanged a series of glances that said:

1) Elizabeth got a head start on the drinking

2) She was wearing a frilly apron that Peter had never seen before and he had no idea why

and 3) They needed to start drinking quickly if they were to ever catch up.

"Come on in, I hope you don't mind a theme," she said, pouring them each a large, salt-rimmed glass.

"You hate theme parties," Peter objected.

"Exactly," she said. "Have a canapé."

"But you hate people who call them canapés," Peter was saying in between gulps, but Neal was surveying the table with a wide smile.

"I love fifties snacks. Everything is processed!" Neal caught Peter's look of surprise and took the opportunity to nearly empty his glass. "I can't like kitsch? You know who does a great kitsch party is Moz," he continued, turning to Elizabeth.

"That actually surprises me. He entertains?" She passed a tray of mini pigs in a blanket to Peter, who was relieved to have a snack that he could pronounce for a change.

"Of course, thieves have networking events," Neal said, pouring himself and Peter another full glass of the very tasty but bracing mixture. "What with all of his manual skills, Mozzie can make anything out of aspic. He had this one meet-and-greet once where everybody's jello mold was part of a blueprint for this job we were going to do—" Neal looked at Peter and giggled. "I wish I could take you to something like that. You'd get a kick out of how normal yet completely not normal they are."

"And this is exactly why I asked you here tonight, and put on the apron my mother made me for Christmas last year," Elizabeth said, getting up to curtsy with her apron pulled out as if she were Shirley Temple "You two can't socialize very much. You miss out on lots of the important couple things—like obnoxious neighbors." She sat down and laughed for a while before she realized she was laughing alone. "I can tell that we need to move to phase two."

"Elizabeth, it's really okay," Neal said at the same time Peter said, "Really, hon—"

The glare from those blue eyes paralyzed the FBI agent who had just uttered the term of endearment for his wife, and Elizabeth got up and went to the cupboard.

"Just because you two don't have any close living relatives doesn't mean you should be spared what every couple has to go through—"

"Oh no, Elizabeth, I beg you—" Peter said, reaching to intercept the photo album.

Neal politely set both of their drinks on the coffee table and then threw himself bodily at Peter, wrestling in earnest until he finally caught the bigger man in a ticklish spot and grabbed the album away.

"Whew!" he said, panting, with eyes shining, "This is going to be good."

Peter sat there drinking steadily while his wife and his boyfriend guffawed at bad haircuts, bad prom photos, earnest-looking pictures of his academy days and the famed moustache.

"I thought this was supposed to be my birthday," he said miserably, eating a cracker covered with cream cheese and pineapple.

"It is, sweetie, oh sorry Neal," she said to the guest who was wiping the tears from his eyes, and who gave a tipsy wave of dismissal at the term—the men were already close to done with their third glass, "but you two have to sneak around, and after awhile, that's not good. My gift to you tonight was to be a normal couple for a few hours."

"Thank you, Elizabeth," Peter said sincerely, and put his arm around Neal for the first time since walking in. "That means a lot—to us."

Neal leaned into the larger frame contentedly. "I take it you've been to a lot of obnoxious get-togethers with neighbors?"

"There was this one, what was the couple's name, the one with the turtle?" Peter began.

"The Taorminos," Elizabeth said, topping off her glass and putting a miniature pig in a blanket in Neal's mouth.

"Right, them. They had this pet turtle, and if you hid something it would fetch things and bring it back. Or so they said. The problem is it was a damn turtle, so they had people waiting around for half the night to show us this trick. Elizabeth kept falling asleep, leaving me to talk to this-"

"Periodontist and topiary artist—" she filled in.

"No way. That's not a real career," Neal said, falling out of his embrace a little and then clinging to Peter so he could right himself.

"It is. And she was a very committed topiarist—is that what she called it?" Peter mused, evidently a bit worse for margarita himself. He took another gulp. "But there really is only so much to say about gums and shrubs, and me, not so much gifted with the gab—"

"You do just fine," Neal said, leaning up to give Peter a quick kiss. "Oh sorry, Elizabeth," he said.

"What are you apologizing for?" she asked, her eyes a bit crossed. "After all, truth be told, the real reason I asked you two over this evening, besides a chance to drink something too low-class for one of my events-"

They all raised their drinks and clinked glasses before emptying them quickly. "I'm all about the cheap," Peter said, and got two punches in the gut for it. "Ow."

"Was that I wanted you to settle a long-standing dispute between me and Mr. Burke."

Neal looked from one to the other—Peter looked blank and Elizabeth looked mischievous.

"Huge," she said simply.

Neal grasped her import after just a second. "Absolutely enormous. Have to see it to believe it."

"No," Peter breathed, and it was hard to tell if he was denying the reference to his endowment or in denial that his wife and boyfriend were discussing it. "And how would you know? You said that you only had that one guy—"

"That doesn't mean I've been blind for the last 15 years," Neal guffawed. "I mean there's this guy in Accounting—"

"Oh, the one who's really young but prematurely gray? I always walk by there when I'm meeting Peter for lunch," Elizabeth leaned forward and they had to try a few times to high-five one another.

"Gorgeous."

"To die for."

"Elizabeth! Neal!" Peter was shocked.

"Don't worry, honey, Neal and I were talking about your suits one day, one of the first times he came over, and he had observed far too many details about your 'tailoring' as he called it, for it to be really about back vents and pleats."

Neal blushed and Peter moved to face him. "You did? You noticed me?" Peter leaned forward a little too fast and Neal's head was knocked backwards with the force of the kiss.

"Sorry, Elizabeth," they said together in unison and then laughed as they struggled to right themselves.

"So something I've been meaning to ask you, Neal," their hostess said, "Oh, look at you two, it's not anything bad. I was going to ask, if it's not gauche, whether you plan on giving Peter a makeover against his will once you come into all that money."

Neal laughed, relieved. "I have plans. He keeps the manly look, but forgets the word 'polyester.'"

"You think I'm manly?" Peter asked, running his hand down Neal's back.

"Absolutely, so anyway—"

"You know I had a dream about your money," Peter recalled. "Mozzie kindly agreed to steal it from you so you could steal it back. Otherwise you didn't feel like it was really yours."

"To Mozzie," Neal proposed a toast and they drank deeply. "Who won't talk to me anymore because, and I quote, I'm 'sleeping with the enemy."

Everyone laughed but Peter, who was uncomfortable with the idea that his sex life existed for the little criminal at all. "Elizabeth, he broke my heart when he confronted me. He painted this awful picture of my future, saying that I would go to those dinner and drink nights with all the other FBI spouses—"

"Those are deadly," she leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. "I went once and came away with more terrible visions of what could happen to Peter than I could ever come up with on my own."

"He further intimated that my hands would develop a mysterious malady that would make it impossible to pick pockets, like some sort of FBI STD, and that the criminal community would make me a laughingstock, all as a result of dating an FBI agent."

"You don't pick pockets anymore," Peter said.

"I thought you liked it when I did," Neal said flirtatiously.

He and Elizabeth laughed so hard at the alarm on Peter's face that they ended up sobbing on each other's shoulders.

"He has no fear in bed, but talk to him about it—" Neal began.

"Eagle Scout. It's the Eagle Scout in him," Elizabeth completed. "You know, this reminds me. I had a dream. Oh look, we need more margaritas."

The two men took advantage of her absence to make out a little, and thus were somewhat surprised when their hostess came back and resumed, "There you go. Another pitcher for the birthday boy. So this dream I had—" she broke off. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you."

Peter froze. "Oh come on, now, how bad can it be?" Neal asked him. "I want to know," he said.

"No, no, see, now I really am becoming like the obnoxious neighbor. You remember that woman who threw herself at you that one Fourth of July?" she asked Peter.

"Which one?" Peter asked in a tone that suggested he knew very well but didn't want to admit it.

"The one who was wearing that halter top and she kept waving her tits right in your face?" Elizabeth said, demonstrating on Peter.

"Right in front of you?" Neal asked, holding Peter close.

"She'd had a few, but yes, after awhile, it was that obvious. 'Oh, Peter, you're so tall, could you get the shuttlecock out of the tree for me?" Elizabeth said, with an emphasis on the 'cock.'

Neal slid farther down while he laughed until he hit the floor.

Elizabeth was relating, "She kept hitting the badminton bird up in a tree, but really, who says it like that?'

While he was groping his way up Peter's legs and back into a sitting position, Neal noticed something. "Peter!"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to," Peter said miserably, turning away from his wife and his boyfriend and pressing down his crotch.

"No I'm sorry, Neal. It's my fault for setting up this evening to have odd boundaries," Elizabeth said.

"You know, Peter said once that it was big of you to not show up at the FBI in a housecoat screaming at me for being a homewrecking slut, so maybe I'm the one who should be apologizing to you," Neal pointed out.

"That's right, shameless whore," Elizabeth said, grabbing a fistful of Neal's hair playfully.

"Stay away from my man, bitch," Neal growled, pinning her arms behind her head.

"Guys, I don't think this is a good idea," Peter was saying somewhere far away.

"You think you have what it takes to keep him? I don't think so," Elizabeth giggled while unbuttoning a couple buttons on her blouse.

"Go ahead, tramp, now that he's had a taste of real class—" Neal was saying while the small woman wriggled out of his grasp and climbed on his chest. "Ooh, Elizabeth, these are nice," Neal said, running his hand on her garter and stockings. "Agent Provocateur?"

"Yes," she said, letting him lift her frilly apron to reveal the full lingerie set. "So nice to have them appreciated."

"Okay guys, it's um, my birthday and I say that's enough," Peter said lamely, but with a note of danger in his voice.

Neal leaned up and kissed Elizabeth until they were roughly separated. "Are you jealous?" Neal asked while he felt the evidence that Peter's interest was not dulled by the alcohol. "Of wh—"

Neal's mouth was not free to complete the question, and by the time it was he had forgotten it.

"Oh, Neal, we shouldn't—" Peter looked down and saw the hand that had unfastened his belt was his wife's.

As if they had planned the moment, Neal and Elizabeth looked at each other and he nodded his agreement with her true gift to Peter. From then on, they made it known that they were his fantasies made flesh.

Strangely, one of the first configurations he chose was of Neal making love to his wife.

All of his usual sympathetic connection with women was sharper and deeper with the woman who also loved his lover. They forgot themselves for a moment, and only when Peter lent himself to their kissing did he actually take an active part.

Then the allure of taking Neal in front of Elizabeth was too much, and Peter succumbed within minutes.

"You carry it around with you just in case?" Elizabeth pointed to the small tube of lubricant that had appeared from Neal's pocket.

"We went out with Diana and Suzette the other night and it's so rare we get to leave the house together I thought I would take advantage," Neal said while he and Elizabeth petted one another.

"Where did you go?" she asked, obviously excited by the idea.

"A place I chose for its private restrooms with velvet couches," Neal said in her ear, and then they were joined again.

"I can't believe we did that," Peter said, coming up to run his hands on both of their bodies, but mostly Neal's. The mention of their semi-public coupling had him instantly in the game again, and he joined the motions the other two were making. He and Neal kissed deeply, with enjoyment, over Elizabeth's shoulder, until finally they added their cries to hers.

"You never told us your dream," Neal said, playing with her hair while Peter held him tight around the waist.

"It was something like that," she said, kissing one, then the other, lightly on the lips.

The activity seemed to have sobered them up quite a bit, and Elizabeth served more substantial sandwiches with coffee. "Did you forget? We still need to reveal the painting," she said from where they sat, very close together, on the couch.

"I've been staring at the sheet all night and forgot that that's what we were here for," Peter admitted, setting down his plate. "Shall I?"

He removed the covering and stood back to see himself with Neal. "Do we really look that good together?" he asked of the two on the couch.

"I like to think so," Neal replied.

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "Though the clothes are a distraction."

"Did you put Spanish fly in the pigs in a blanket?" Neal asked with an undercurrent of worry.

"No, Neal. You could have fled after an hour of excruciatingly awkward conversation, and I would have done due diligence." She paused. "But you both are welcome to sleep here tonight in the guest room."

"No, thank you, though," Peter spoke quickly, leaving his examination of the portrait to kiss his wife's hair. "This has been amazing, Elizabeth. I feel a sense of peace as we leave. Are you okay, Neal?" Peter dedicated his most passionate kiss of the evening to his lover.

"I think so. Yes. You do like the portrait?"

"I love it."

Rather than risk driving home, they called a cab and piled in the backseat. "Happy birthday," Elizabeth called, waving from the door.

"That's one I don't think I'll ever forget," Peter whispered into Neal's hair.

"Let's have another one for just the two of us," Neal said, letting Peter fall asleep on his shoulder until they got back to his apartment. He hauled the bigger man up the stairs as best he could and put him to bed, looking at the other canvas peeking out behind his art supplies.

Neal pulled out the portrait and examined it. It was so raw, almost feverish, that he didn't immediately recognize the style as his. It was Peter's face, but the face that came out while they were making love. More crafty and more pure than his everyday face, this Peter held his lips out, brimming with yet another kiss he was planting on the side of the man's face that was obscured by the man in the foreground.

It was a face he never expected to be in his life, but Neal had spent ages of careful work on making the features look accidental, erupting out of the background and taking hold of the canvas, anchoring it with a dynamism that was meant to look as though it were moving.

Neal was worried that tonight was not merely a lark, but the sign that he would have to go halves, and thieves always have creative mathematics when it comes to dividing the spoils.

He went to sleep and woke up to the smell of eggs. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Neal asked, feeling a bit nauseous.

"I know so," Peter said. "Have yours with a lot of toast and you'll feel better."

They sat, eating their breakfast in silence. "What is it?" Neal asked a bit testily. "I'm sure I look a fright. You took a shower already."

"You look perfect," Peter said. "Come here." He dragged Neal, plate in hand, to the corner with his art supplies.

"Oh, I forgot to put it away last night!" Neal moaned. "There was supposed to be this whole unveiling ceremony."

"I think I can only take one unveiling ceremony for a while," Peter said with emphasis. "Don't worry. I'm not moving back in with Elizabeth. You're in the driver's seat. And this—' he indicated the picture.

"Don't you dare use a car metaphor for our relationship."

"This is yours," Peter completed, taking the plate from Neal, setting it on a chair, and walking him to the shower, where he let his lover take a thorough inventory of his goods.

"You said 'boyfriend,'" he reminded Neal.

"Did I? I suppose I did." They lay around and shared birthday stories and ordered pizza to go with the chocolate soufflé they had been meant to have last night.

Peter spent the rest of the day at Neal's and decided to leave very early the next morning to change his clothes. He was getting ready to leave at 5:30 am when he heard Neal's phone ring.

Peter was waving goodbye when Neal's hand stopped him.

"Yes, sir."

Neal never said 'sir.'

"No, sir."

"I'll be sure not to tell anyone, sir."

He hung up. "Hughes said—"

"Don't tell me!" Peter exclaimed, his hands over his ears. "This is a test, I know it. He's going to look at my face to see whether I'm sleeping here and you told me while we did un-FBI-like things under the sheets!"

Peter ran down the stairs and out into the street, so terrified of being caught at having a relationship with his CI that he forgot to be concerned about the content of the call.

Neal received the expected call from one of his lawyers at 8:00, after he'd spent the last two and a half hours adjusting to the idea that he was soon to be a billionaire. For real.

A billionaire who was still an indentured servant to the FBI, and must buy his freedom, not with money, but with one last undercover op.

"I have to get some fancy apartment right away?" Neal had asked Hughes while his mind came up with various unpleasant scenarios for how the FBI knew before he did that the legal obstacles were beginning to fall away between him and the dirty money.

"Yes, obviously we can't tell you exactly what to do in that regard, but it does need to look like you're turning over a new leaf in every area of your life, or these people won't believe it," the FBI supervisor said. "You must have your eye on all kinds of fancy places in New York Caffrey. Probably cased quite a few."

Neal felt filthy talking about thievery with Hughes. "I suppose. But as an artist, I like the view here—you know, light is a funny thing—"

"I know it's a lot to take in, Caffrey, but you are mine until this operation is over, and I hope we're getting off to a good start."

"Yes, sir." Neal's mind was spinning crazily. Did he mean-?

"That's good. You report to Legal at nine this morning and to me henceforward. Until the day when you're a free billionaire and can pay a skywriter to spell exactly where the FBI can go across the Manhattan skyline, every day for perpetuity. Don't be late."

Neal seriously thought of running during those two and a half hours. Peter never made him feel like Hughes just did after a ten-minute phone conversation. It was lucky that Peter wasn't there, or maybe he would have run. His relationship made him impulsive, emotional, and the Caffrey with the nerves of steel, safecracker Caffrey, heist-planner Caffrey, was what was needed now.

Now and for the next foreseeable months.

Neal thanked the lawyer, who had gotten ten times more unctuous overnight now that he was getting a fee, while he was walking out the door.

When he got into the office a little early, he made a show of getting something from his desk so he could scan Peter's face with the office glass between them. Peter hadn't guessed what chain of events was unfolding. He could tell from the posture.

Neal didn't seriously believe the FBI was trying to catch Peter in bed with him—after all, couldn't Neal have called Peter at home to tell him the news? He probably would have, even if they weren't together, Neal thought on the way to Legal.

When he emerged two hours later and headed to Hughes' office, and then re-emerged for the team meeting, Neal had to endure the old man patting him on the shoulder in front of their unit. "Caffrey here is going undercover. Those of you who worked the Scott case know why this is important, and your expertise will be crucial."

Only someone who knew Peter well would be able to see the utter panic that was visible only in his eyes and only for a second.

Neal could tell that the old man was satisfied with something, but he couldn't tell whether it was something that helped or hurt him and Peter.


	18. Chapter 18

~Book 2~

"Team A, meet Team B," Hughes said nodding from Peter's team to a group of four agents Peter knew by name as Clarice Brower, George Suarez, Allen Singh and Sara Littleton. "You are now one team working on Caffrey's sting operation and will pool all intel you previously gathered from the Scott case."

Peter's team made noises of protest. "All this time you've had someone else duplicating our efforts?" Jones asked.

"You traced our database searches," Diana surmised. "That's how you've known all this time we were looking into Scott."

Peter was speechless with rage mixed with an animal wariness. He chose to take the high road. "You're the ones who have had access to Scott's business activities, I take it?"

"Yes, I won't tell you what it took to get past his electronic security measures," Brower said, evidently the techie of the group.

"You had a warrant for his business data?" Jones' sense of betrayal was evident. "What I could have done with a warrant—"

"Calm down everybody, Team B got the warrant in part because of your work, Jones, so let's consider it a group effort and move on."

"Will we be receiving the same intelligence going forward?" Diana could be trusted to ask the important questions, God bless her, Peter thought.

Hughes sighed. "Having two independent teams was important because the brass was very wary to take on a Titan like Scott was. Team A, you identified a pattern no one else would have seen, and you even got many of the whys and wherefores right. But as you say, you had no warrant, and only a suicide's word repeated by a, er, senior agent of impeccable reputation who was dosed precisely to diminish that reputation."

Peter felt like that was pretty fair, and didn't dispute the dosing.

"We needed a group of agents who had never met Scott, suspected him of nothing other than being a recluse, and it didn't take long for them to find irregularities."

Suarez leaned forward, looked at the boss for a go-ahead, and dived in. "Money. Huge sums of it. Going in and out of shell corporations for no apparent reason. It's the sort of thing that would have raised a red flag eventually if he didn't have these business entities hidden under so many aliases. The kind of thing that would scream illegal activity, smuggling, gambling, something unwholesome because it was being hidden so well."

Peter could feel his team getting drawn in despite themselves, which gave him a moment to give a serious think on exactly what Hughes had been playing at and for how long.

"Were you able to trace the money to anywhere? Did it fit my data?" Jones asked excitedly.

"Yes, in a word." Singh said with a glance at Brower, his team's equivalent of Jones, evidently one with little patience for letting the eggheads run off at the mouth. "There are many of these ultra-rich people who seem to have the hidden financial habits of high-stakes gamblers, except with few exceptions they're never seen at casinos."

"Does Interpol have any similar patterns?" Peter spoke up.

"They've been logging data, but with no evidence of a crime, it's been on the back burner," Hughes said. "Now we're in the opposite situation we started from—we have evidence of a crime—" he nodded at Neal, who darted a calming look at Peter, his first one since they were in the room together—"and we have no suspect. No live one anyway."

"What about the butler?" Peter asked.

"I have a few questions for him," Neal said quietly.

"As do I, Caffrey, but everyone is sticking to my playbook from now on, and that one says that this thing is going to be attacked from the top down or not at all." Hughes peered over his glasses and the agents seemed to shrink. "Good." He went to go sit on a table. "Take it away, Caffrey."

"You may have heard that the DOJ helped cut through the red tape on my, the, let's call it spoils, shall we?" Neal said delicately. "In order to allow me to quickly ascend to the ranks of the ultra-rich. From there it's one hop, skip and a jump to a rich, jaded sonofabitch who is dying to try out what nearly got him killed to begin with—the Game."

"Did you find out that's what they call it?" Diana demanded of Team B. "You got in that far?"

Agent Littleton spoke up. "They brought me in for cryptography. Yes I am of drinking age. No, I won't tell you how much older," she said in the tone of someone taking care of a monotonous responsibility. Peter's team exchanged a glance. The girl did look about eighteen, but they didn't much care as long as she got to the point.

"And?" Diana prompted.

Littleton flashed a smile. "And they don't call it anything. Or rather, each person has their own personal word to refer to what we call The Game. It took ages combing through the emails Brower was occasionally able to intercept, and I had to develop an algorithm that found different words of the same frequency within the text."

Jones nodded for the group. "And that appeared at the right time to be a response."

"Exactly. One person's noun was 'completion.' Easy to work that in, right? 'For completion it will be necessary to invest $250,000.' That was one transaction. Another person might write in response, 'I had a real nightmare getting to the airport today; the traffic took 45 minutes extra.' For that person, nightmare is their word, and you have to extrapolate from the time units to dollars. None of which is written down anywhere, I'd bet."

"For me, it will be in terms of painting," Neal said. Peter hoped that no one else felt like his ex-CI looked lonely standing by himself at the front of the room—Peter wanted to hug him. "Since paintings can only be so big, I plan on making the proportion of the length to the width be one figure multiplied by a constant once I figure out how these people play the—paint the painting," he corrected himself and flashed a smile to Littleton, who didn't seem to notice it was not even close to a real Caffrey grin.

"Today is the last time anyone will see Neal Caffrey at the FBI," Hughes resumed. "If you pass him on the street you may say a friendly hello, but we will do our best to make sure that nothing reminds these rich sons of bitches that Caffrey was ever a member of the FBI family."

Diana's eyes widened and she glanced at Peter over the unusual recognition from their boss.

"We went through everything your profiler said about Scott," Suarez said. "These people are all loners, even if they're loners in the midst of a crowd. If they had connections they wouldn't need to manipulate connections, if you see what I mean. Caffrey is going to need to totally reinvent himself, and Brower says we have to assume they have excellent data reach. Email is going to be risky, for instance. Telephones, also."

"We don't send agents out totally alone, much less CIs," Jones spoke up, and Peter wanted to kiss him. "What good does his info do us if he can't share with the bureau?"

"A, I won't be totally alone," Peter's heart leaped for one quick second. "I'm pretty confident my skill set is different than these people's. I know a criminal type with no record here in the states who can basically get on a plane tomorrow and become my equivalent of Tomas the butler. This person will be performing the same functions, the dirt-gathering—"

"But no drugs," Peter said.

"No drugs," Neal faced him for a moment and Peter could feel the message in his eyes that he was on top of the situation. "That's the only real risk, is that the group tries things out on each other. I don't think my kidneys could hack it, if nothing else."

"Caffrey's lawyers have that escape clause written in to his exit contract," Hughes said with what Peter thought was evident displeasure. "If he gets exposed to toxins or intoxicants on the job, he gets a get out of jail free card."

"Short of that, I'm in for a year. If I can't help make a case in a year, then I also get to go, time served," Neal said in a friendly tone. "My people are still talking to your people about how expenses will be handled, so don't say goodbye to me yet," he said, already being hugged by Diana.

"But my wedding, Hughes," she said in a pleading tone.

"He can go to the wedding; this is supposed to look natural. A natural distancing between someone who came into a great deal of cash and his working stiff friends," Hughes explained.

"I have a day to close some loops with some of my criminal friends," Neal said softly. "There's not many people I want to expose to the level of scrutiny these people are going to direct at my life, so it won't be too hard to alienate the few people who stuck by me once I started going legit."

Even the strangers in the room must have been able to tell that the next day was going to be very hard on Neal indeed.

"This is going to be a closed operation, for the most part," Hughes said, oblivious to Neal's tension. "I have been reporting to some higher-ups you'd rather not meet, to tell you the truth, and that's the way it's going to stay. A/B team, get to know each other, and we'll wait to hear from Caffrey and his 'people' about his first move."

Hughes left the room. Neal was quickly surrounded by the B team, who were anxious to impart information to the undercover operative before he went incommunicado.

"Oh, man," Jones whispered. "If this whole scene burns me up, you must be boiling," he said to Peter.

"Must be," Diana said in an offhand manner that Peter saw right through.

"First time the FBI played me, but there's a first time for everything," he said, stealing a glance at the gamble he would take again and again in the form of Neal. "We all want to shut down these people who are basically cockfighting humans, so that's what I choose to focus on."

Actually, Peter was racking his brains for what Terence would tell him if he weren't still out of his gourd, when Neal was suddenly leaving. "Oh, sorry guys, my lawyers just—excuse me," Neal said with his phone to his ear as he made his way out of the room.

Only later, when Peter went to the restroom to look himself in the eyes and check for signs of emotion did he find the paper Neal dropped in his pocket.

"No phones. Not safe. Not for you. Workout clothes have been placed in your locker down in the staff shower room. Take them and go to the gym on West 59th. Give your name at the desk as Brown, and say you have a massage booked for 8 pm."

Peter let himself float for the rest of the day, sharing information with the new team members about Scott's psychology. "What were the drugs like?" Littleton asked eagerly, and Peter gave an autopilot answer to that, too, complete with 'aw, shucks, guys,' pseudo-irritation at the teasing.

He and Diana knew each other so well that Peter found himself thinking his resolve at her so she wouldn't worry.

It had been a dinner at Elizabeth's day, but Peter merely went out on the roof and told her that Neal's money had come through and that was that. No fool, his wife had been trying to prepare him for this very eventuality for weeks, so he didn't have to break his confidentiality vow to let her know that Neal had been activated.

A few minutes before 8 pm, Peter was approaching the gym when he saw Mozzie coming out.

"If I find out you had anything to do with this," the small criminal said to him in a serene voice.

The hair stood up on the back of Peter's neck for some reason.

Peter was seldom unnerved by criminals, but suddenly he felt like Mozzie was going to take him down in some unimaginable way. He pulled himself together.

"How could you think I would send him back into danger? I got played here, Moz. The bureau was working against me, so how could I protect—" he paused. "Someone I care about very deeply."

"He should never have gotten involved with you people," Mozzie sniffed, but with a little less coldness.

"We are now officially on the same side, Moz, so expect to hear from me," Peter said, rushing away so as not to lose a minute with Neal.

"How disappointing. I was expecting you wearing a towel, ready to undo the tension you've caused me today," Peter said in an attempt at humor, sitting on the table across from Neal, who was slumped exhaustedly in a chair, fiddling with his phone. "Neal, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes," Neal came and perched on the table next to him. "I've been working on our personal code so we can still communicate somewhat. Here."

With his arm around Peter, Neal explained that it was based on the same idea that the gaming group had for a personalized word to signify the game. Each letter of the alphabet was signified by a picture that could only be decoded by them, with their years of intimacy, once it was posted on Neal's Instagram account. An A, for instance, would be anything associated with the Wall Street financial district, because that's where they worked their first case. A B, on the other hand, was anything chocolate, because Neal prepared a chocolate soufflé the second time he was invited to Peter's home. And so on.

Peter's mind went into overdrive so he could quickly memorize the picture code and then put Neal's phone aside. "What did you mean, the phone isn't safe for me?" he asked, memorizing and re-memorizing Neal's shoulders, his chest, his back.

"It's just a feeling I have from Hughes. You need to lie low, Peter, you've been in the spotlight too much with the Scott case."

"I'll lie as low as you want, Neal," he said, pulling Neal down with him to the table surface. "How much time do we have?"

"Until midnight. That's when the cleaning staff will come and my lawyers didn't know where to find them to buy them off."

"Are you really all that rich?" Peter asked, taking off his lover's clothes.

"Filthy, stinking rich," Neal said without a speck of enjoyment. "Listen Peter, no really. I'm hoping it doesn't take a year, but I think we should go into it with our eyes open. I have no desire," his voice broke, "no desire to be with anyone else. But this is like any con, in that I may have to." He nodded sadly at his companion. "I wouldn't rule it out, at least the appearance of an affair or two before I supposedly turn my back on the world. And I want you to go back to Elizabeth, if that feels right to you."

"If the two of you weren't so hell bent on being noble maybe this would be a little easier on me," Peter said glumly. "Am I the only one in this situation with emotions? Is it wrong to say, 'I love you Neal Caffrey and stop trying to pass me off on Elizabeth, on the bureau, on drugs, on some goddamn experimental phase'?" He sat up in sudden anger. "When does what I feel count, actually count as a factor to be reckoned with in any fashion?"

"Peter, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know you didn't mean." Peter was on his feet now. "I fucking throw my heart at your feet every five minutes or so, Neal, and you have the grace not to step on it when you avoid it like the plague." He was towering over Neal, and he didn't care that he was wasting his last evening with his lover being irrational. "I did the best I knew how. I hope you'll grant me that when you look back on this from your lofty height where you-"

"I had to do it, Peter," Neal said, pressing his palm against the cheek he just slapped. "Will you shut up a minute? Put your head between your knees if you have to." He rubbed Peter's back. "Better? Now when have you ever known me not to have a side game?"

He registered Peter's suspicious look. "Except in matters of the heart. Moz probably has a bigger network than some of these rich bitches will, and his is made up out of people who would go down for him, they love him so much. He has that gift."

Neal shrugged. "Mozzie and I have hundred ways to communicate with each other based upon years of working together, so there's always that. Some of these bastards are going to start getting a taste of their own medicine, random calamities sooner rather than later, so it doesn't coincide with my joining their clique." Neal almost managed a usual-wattage smile. "That means there's no reason we can't see each other."

"No," Peter waved his hands in front of him. "I refuse to rely upon Mozzie for my romantic liaisons."

"What was it you said awhile ago? Perhaps I forgot our code already, because I thought it started with 'L'?"

"In our code, L is pictures of a virile looking man, standing for—something you apparently aren't going to miss," Peter said, swatting Neal's hand away from where he was tracing an L on his anatomy.

"I'm either worth the trouble or I'm not," Neal said simply.

"You've always been worth the trouble," Peter relented. "Which is a good thing, considering how much of it you've caused me."

"I'm not going to push you back to Elizabeth, or back into your old bureau mindset, if that's not what you want. But I need you to promise me—if you're no longer there for me to come back to, I have a right to know. You post a picture of a sunflower on your Instagram, and that's it. I'm gone from your life."

"Why a sunflower?" Peter asked foolishly because he didn't want this escape clause.

"Smarmy bastards. Always hated the smug frankness of 'em," Neal said.

"And how do I know when your fabulous wealth has introduced you to the man and/or woman of your dreams and you've forgotten my name?" Peter asked, sinking back down on the table.

"Unlikely," Neal said, kissing his head. "Un-fucking likely." He ran his tongue lightly over Peter's lips. "Peter Burke, I'm coming at this situation from more angles than you can imagine. And they all are leading to the same direction." He quickly stripped off and clambered on top of Peter. "Home."

Knowing that for Neal, "love" was spelled "home," Peter grasped the other man tight in his arms and they nearly dislodged the table from where it was bolted to the floor.

The experience was enough to keep Peter going for several days. A week, almost, he was able to play his role perfectly. He learned it from watching Terence actually, in his frequent visits to Bellevue, where his friend had taken a turn from up to down and was dragging around like he was made out of lead, the usual sequence of events being a severe depression after a manic high.

He saw his therapist go through the motions of standing in the med line, answering the nurse's questions, and only when they were left alone in the visiting room did all the pretense slide off of him and the man sat very still, showing his sadness to the one person who wouldn't judge him.

Peter tried not to overwhelm Terence with his own troubles, but he did say that Neal was going to be away for a while, and then they sat, for a half an hour at a time, grateful for someone to be lonely with.

"Thanks, man, you do me a world of good," Peter said softly at the end of every visit. "Let me know when you're going to get off your ass and fight the good fight, soldier. I have plans for you."

And he watched as Terence gathered up the shreds of his social mask to make it through the agony of a brief interaction with the cheerful nurse. He looked back once and nodded at Peter, the only communication he could manage.

Peter didn't have it as bad as all that, he decided, and he concentrated on being the best FBI agent he could in hopes that he could help end Neal's operation sooner.

The one problem was Hughes. Not only was Peter relegated to a rank-and-file officer on this case that he'd identified himself, but he was sure it had something to do with Neal. Either Hughes knew that he was involved with Neal, and was punishing Peter for it, or he was wanting something different from this case than Peter would want—that is, he was willing to take more risks with his (his!) CI than Peter ever would.

Either way, Peter took Neal's parting words about being careful at the FBI very seriously indeed. "You could quit tomorrow. Peter, I'm sure I could find a way to funnel some of my millions to you and put you on a remote island until I'm done with this. But you wouldn't be happy. Take care of what you've still got, until such a time when we can walk down the street together, say. I want more in your life, rather than less."

As a result, Peter really did empty his mind and go with the flow, as he had during so many cases before. That was why he was shocked along with the rest of the team when Hughes, in the middle of some pep talk about getting Neal plausibly introduced to the inner gaming circle, suddenly exploded, "With me, Burke!"

Diana, Jones and Peter all exchanged looks of mutual confusion as he followed Hughes into his office.

"Stop doing that!" Hughes exclaimed.

"What? What am I doing?" Peter asked, completely flummoxed.

"You're looking at me like I'm a total bastard, that's what," his supervisor replied. "I have two ex-wives and they don't even look at me that way anymore."

"But sir, I—"

"Look Burke, I'm going to tell it to you straight, and you'll thank me for it: I don't give a good goddamn who you're sleeping with. Got that?"

Peter sat down without asking if he could.

"Oh yes, Romeo, I've seen you give goo-goo eyes to Caffrey for longer than you were probably aware of. I had a good mind to separate you long ago, but you two were so damn effective I couldn't have even if I wanted to."

His listener could feel a foolish expression of tragedy barely avoided spreading across his face despite his best efforts.

"Don't think I'm a prude, Burke, oh no, you forget that the FBI was a very different place in the Seventies, pal, mark my words." Hughes perched on the edge of his desk and he smiled. "Everything was shades of gray in the Seventies. But now, I'm frankly surprised you went for it, everyone choosing sides and labeling themselves the way they do. Who would've thought you had the balls to act on your feelings for the CI that you spent more time looking at under a microscope than I did either of my marriages. Ha."

Hughes looked over and seemed surprised Peter was still sitting there like a rabbit under a rifle sight.

"But I'll tell you something Burke: whether you are with Caffrey, your wife, A and B, or none of the above, concerns me not at all. This may be my last big case, is what I'm saying, and it would be a hell of a way to go out—winning something that isn't recovering the embezzled dollars for the bamboozled bigwig, isn't righting a number on a balance sheet that nobody noticed in the first place. It would be about the whole attitude towards money that is all haywire in the world—rich people treating others like playthings. Point blank. This is a values case, and I'm sorely in need of a moral victory.

"See, agent, you still have a wife, as far as I know. And as far as any mere mortal can read Caffrey, you have him totally freaked out, which must be pretty close to love. You know what I've got? An AA sponsor named Maurice and a waitress at my regular diner who gives me extra saltines free of charge with my soup.

"Perhaps now you can understand what I mean when I say that I'm not about to let your little love affair get in the way of my big send-off case. If I know about your shenanigans, that means somebody else can know about it, and that, believe me, will end up causing you a world of hurt someday."

Peter opened his mouth and then thought better of it and shut it.

"The day that they found Scott's body, did you ever ask yourself why NYPD had preliminary control over the case? The case that our agency identified and pursued—with brilliant out-of-the-box thinking, for the most part, I have to say."

Peter went back to his frozen posture.

"The mansion is crawling with DEA, they've got CDC on the horn, everyone is swarming around the crime scene that should have been our crime scene, and you know why? Because my lead agent is known to have such an insane hatred of the dearly departed that—" Hughes began ticking off on his fingers—"Scott's staff knew it from merely witnessing your entry into the house that night. My staff knew it and had been burning the midnight oil trying to assuage said hatred. And DEA is the one that happens to mention it based upon your manner whenever the man's name came up in Chicago."

Peter was certain he'd been nothing but professional while in Chicago.

"Suddenly, NYPD has an in, we're on the outs, and FBI has to wait with our thumbs up our asses while everybody else determines that you can't possibly have offed Scott because the liver temperature is wrong and there's no way you could have gotten in to finish the job.

"That's downright embarrassing, is what that is—having to wait until the FBI's transparency has been upheld. I never want to be in a position where my agent's love life becomes my business like that again, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Peter got up and then sat back down. "Sir?"

"What is it, Burke?"

"Who else knows, sir?"

"Probably no one but me and I assume Diana. Jones doesn't even know, for Chrissakes. I'm a cagey old bastard who doesn't have much to do except watch people," he indicated the personnel in their glass cages. "That's why you're going to have to tone down the paranoia vibe and the love vibe, because to me they're deafening."

Peter tried to summon up indifference for Neal, but that was asking too much. His shoulders slumped.

"Burke, this is why what you're doing is so dangerous." Hughes sat back and put his arms behind his head.

"Career suicide, you mean, sir?"

"No, are you a fool? Life isn't a career. Life is about what you're willing to give up, which always is more than you think. Caffrey, he's from the other side of the tracks from you, and he's used to making these calculations all the time. Maybe I agree with his conclusions, maybe I don't, but no criminal, not even the handsomest, most brilliant criminal, has an easy life.

"You, Burke, you haven't even lost your wife yet. Are you willing to give her up for this dazzling smile? Are you willing to give up your job, the people who you see every day and who look up to you—when was the last time someone really stood in your way? Scott? Before that? This conversation is a tickle compared to getting interrogated by the police or locked up, like Caffrey has. Ask yourself, Burke, would your smile be intact after those experiences? Because from where I'm sitting, you're shooting me these hateful looks when all I'm guilty of is doing my job."

Hughes took a deep breath and then expelled it. "So quit it. Look for someone else to blame for your unhappiness if you're not man enough to shoulder it yourself."

His boss suddenly changed tone. "A shame about that profiler of yours. Truly one of the better ones we've had. None of that psychobabble hocus-pocus. Refreshing, that. I'm actually willing to give him another go, but only on the cases where his background won't make a difference. You know a court would have him for dinner."

The supervisor got up and walked to the door. "Everyone loves a good love story, Burke," he said softly, unexpectedly, and then threw the door open.

Peter walked calmly to the bathroom and vomited.


	19. Chapter 19

Neal had asked for one month to put his rapidly calculated plans for a new identity into action, and he quickly realized he was through the looking glass.

Where normally he was trying to shed his skin in a con, this time he would be quietly holding on to some things he didn't want to lose. In this game, he would be using his own name, his face, and making headlines as himself—or as the new filthy-rich eligible bachelor he suddenly was.

He and Moz had talked it through in detail. While his new rich friends wouldn't consciously understand the significance, Neal created his own airbrush tattoos that were indistinguishable from the real thing and got his ears pierced several times. For a con man, altering his personal canvas in a recognizable way was bad business, as it made him more recognizable to the law. His criminal friends were to see the classic dragon curling up his left forearm, and the phoenix poking its head through the neck of his shirt as just such an abandonment of his old life-though everything was removable, of course.

As was the secret piercing that Neal couldn't wait for Peter to discover. That was his hidden anchor, and he focused all of himself he kept for Peter onto that one ring during the several sexual liaisons he thought necessary to complete the impression he was going on a spree. All women—he hoped that would mean a little something to his now-incommunicado lover.

Neal's hair also began to take on an edgier look, and his clothes became an odd mixture between his old classic style and a modern detail—a studded belt, or a leather vest. It was a careful effect that made him look like he was trying a bit too hard to be bohemian, which was the sin Neal had chosen for himself, where others who suddenly found themselves swimming in money would try too hard to look rich.

The airbrush was one of several pieces of art equipment that took up the space in his exclusive Setai condo with a view of the Empire State and the Chrysler Building. The latter building was another way to hold on to his real self and June's apartment-he actually wept when he left it. That he chose one of the few condos in a luxury hotel helped add to the catchphrase he had developed, ready for anyone who pointed out his tattoo wasn't real or he played hard to get with the ladies:

"I have a fear of commitment."

Anyone with eyes could see that wasn't true from his artwork, however. In this one realm, Neal could be his true self, and for the first time in his life he had the leisure for it. Each stroke was sure. He took his sketchpad or easel around the city and focused on it until the world fell away, all but the square of Bryant Park with the man in the formal suit playing chess with himself, or the model at one of the artists' studios he joined.

In such moments, Neal didn't belong to the FBI and he didn't have to be charming to other rich people who suddenly bored him because they were now his people. As a natural part of his artwork he took photos all over the city based on their code and posted a pictorial message to Peter daily, often with one of the pictures being a painting he was working on.

It really did take only a month or so after that before the novelty wore off and Neal was genuinely jaded with the artists' gallery crawls, the high-end hipsters and trust-fund experimental musicians who provided the eerie background music for the loft installations. The curious thing was, some of these people were very talented. And the newcomer Neal was instantly recognized as such as well. There was something about the air, however, that made it impossible for people to really talk, as if everyone feared being caught at some crime against style, and this concern made art almost impossible.

The new billionaire felt the sensation that he got when it was time to burn an identity and leave a city, a claustrophobic feeling that was completely irrelevant now that he was working on the right side of the law.

That must be it. Neal picked the occasional pocket to prove he still had it, but it provided no relief. He went to the roof of the building where he kept his separate studio and picked up his carrier pigeon, Charlene.

"Hey, baby, ready to run an errand for daddy?" he asked. Neal was considering getting a pet he occasionally felt so lonely, and the pigeon he'd been training tapped the same unusual sentimentality.

"Meet me in the Church of St. John the Divine, noon tomorrow," the message said.

Mozzie was there in clerical garb, and they sat in one of the pews to speak quietly.

"You're cracking up," the would-be pastor said after an appraising glance. "I like the tats, however. If I didn't know you I'd think they were real, that this—" his gesture took in the other changes—"hedge fund hipster was real. But it's not."

"I can't help wondering whether this is the last punishment from Prentiss Scott. Now I'm the one wearing the mask, and it's really easy to start thinking that there are two Neals, and which one am I being at the moment, always with a thin sliver of falsehood."

"My son, you haven't forgotten what side you're on yet. The information you gave me from the preliminary FBI studies of the gaming ring has had some fruitful results."

"Really?" Neal leaned forward. "You haven't sent anybody worms, have you?"

The small cleric made a sweeping gesture with his fingertips. "I would never do anything so gauche. And also, we don't know for sure who's involved, so let's say I'm having my operatives lean more towards the bizarre than the Mafia-esque. A woman had a bunch of helium balloons attached to her $2000 Coach bag while she was sitting in the park talking on her cell. She gave a good chase, I hear, and got it back after some hijinks."

"No apartment invasions?" Neal asked, chuckling. "It's too early to play our hand."

"No, no, but everyone on the list has had an odd encounter with a performance artist, say, or had a rainy day when not one Yellow cab in Manhattan would pick them up. One page I did take from Scott's playbook was that there's a certain someone who likes the lads, but no one is meant to know. He has a favorite spot at an exclusive restaurant where he lunches that has a good view the comings and goings of an even more exclusive escort service operating next door. The sight of others doing what they do scratches the itch for him, apparently."

"You convinced them to change the seating."

"It was in clear violation of an actual fire safety code to place a table there," Moz protested. "This gentleman couldn't throw a fit without showing his hand. I'm having a good time with this, especially since I can now grease some of the more reluctant palms thanks to your grease." His face became serious. "You haven't even met these people and you're already having a hard time. Neal, I'm your oldest friend, and I know you are nothing like Prentiss Lloyd Scott, or these moneyed dilettantes you're hanging out with. Take up jogging or something. You'll be fine."

Mozzie got up to go. "Wait. That's it? I'm supposed to go jogging?" Neal demanded.

"Preferably at dusk in the park in the Lower East Side on Tuesday," Mozzie hissed into his ear. He straightened up. "And tell Pierre I've got a line on some of that revolting Muscat wine he likes so much. Not the Azerbaijani kind, I know."

Neal nodded and after a prudent ten minutes or so, left the church to visit his office. The big financial genius he'd imported from Luxembourg—all six foot seven solidly built inches of him—was hard at work in the large empty office space downtown.

"Are you compartmentalizing the above and below the table activities?" Neal asked, looking around the big man to see the several monitors he had going.

"Always. Luxembourg is not the Canary Islands of finance, you know. I'm perfectly aware of how to abide by the law to a certain extent."

"You wouldn't have stayed for so long in Luxembourg if it wasn't so comfortable for you," Neal reminded him. Pierre was the son of an American diplomat who married a European adventuress and died soon after, thus giving Pierre the American name of Edgecombe and a useful American citizenship he'd always kept on the back burner until now.

After not seeing his friend for so long, Neal had been amazed all over again at how the polyglot huckster adjusted his mixture of languages according to those present, but had a terrible time sticking to one per conversation. Their own mixture had always been French and Italian with some Russian thrown in, whereas Pierre spoke to Mozzie in a mixture of German and English.

Neal listened to the update on his investments with half a mind, while he recalled the day Pierre arrived in New York. He waved at the big man at the airport and Pierre succumbed to the fits of emotion, and the huge silk handkerchief to mop them up, that were his trademarks.

"Oh, Neal, Mother always said she would see New York once again before she died," Pierre sniffled, kissing Neal on both cheeks.

"What a tragedy—a lady such as she they don't make anymore," Neal mollified his guest about his mother's death six months earlier as he directed them through the airport baggage claim and to a taxi stand.

"And Mother said you were a gentleman of the old school-she knew the first moment that she set her eyes on you in Monaco."

"I remember you cut a very dashing figure in your croupier's uniform," Neal said. "You always could pull off a bow tie."

After a transatlantic flight Pierre looked as elegant as could be, not a hair on his wavy salt-and-pepper head out of place. "What first struck me about your mother was the sapphire necklace—'borrowed' from her friend, that Spanish countess, for the night, I knew. But what really let me know I was in the presence of greatness was the way she expertly manipulated that Duke into betting the right numbers. The signs were so subtle between the two of you, Pierre, that only someone like me would pick them up. Then I had to watch two fellow artists at work."

They loaded the luggage into the trunk of the taxi and continued their multilingual conversation. The driver, a Pakistani, was unlikely to understand their words.

"Ah yes, Mother and I were so good together we almost never were found out." Pierre sighed. "But if you hadn't come along that night, it would have been such a scene that we would have had to cut out our yearly trips to that casino."

Neal laughed. "The look in that woman's eyes as she stared at your mother could only mean wifely troubles." He had seen the furious society lady appear and decided to help out his fellow grifters by creating a distraction.

"But Mother said that the way you knocked her feet out from underneath her, catching her as if she fainted and saying 'Madame, êtes-vous bien?' as you carried her outside for some fresh air and a getaway-it was the most graceful and efficient fainting spell she'd ever had, and Mother was an expert at having the opportune fit."

"Such a lady, your mother was." Neal reached over and squeezed the man's shoulder. "The Thieving Baroness, I heard her referred to in a Paris constabulary once, and they said it as a badge of honor."

"Some of those titles were real, you know." Pierre took out his large silk handkerchief once again.

"Maybe this change of scenery will do you good."

"Your instructions for this unique job have been most engaging, I must say," Pierre said, brightening, and then peered at Neal. "Where is the lady in all of this? Because there always is one, with you."

Neal returned his gaze. "As I told you, you will be providing a backstory for me, but with a few alterations. One being, that woman you met that one time in Cyprus when I was helping you and your mother move those jewels-"

"Ah, the Scottish woman with the red hair, a beauty."

"Tone down the passion on that story from a rapid boil to a mere simmer. The same for any woman you've known me to be with. I have a fear of commitment. I can't connect. Always searching, never finding. That sort of thing."

"All right. Easily done. Non ti preoccupare. Other than that, I maintain your fortune in a diverse portfolio of legal and marginally legal pursuits. I obtain your wine, facilitate any art dealings, make travel arrangements and—did I forget something?"

"The other matter I mentioned will need complete dossiers on the potential candidates assembled as quickly as you can, for us to go over together," Neal said, staring out the window. "The revenge business was never one that I wanted to get into, but I want to make sure they're people who really deserve the comeuppance."

"Do not worry, my dear Neal," Pierre said with his eternally sweet nature. "Luxembourg is the window to the world. I can think of many such people without even trying. You consider this part of your business as resting on my shoulders."

Neal fell into his old friend's arms and they laughed and sobbed together. It felt good to be himself around someone, to have the perpetual dandy with his Gallic mannerisms let loose his emotions as well.

"There is one more thing I need you to do," Neal said as they were having his bags unloaded by the hotel doorman. For the short term, he'd rented a room for Pierre in the same hotel where Neal's condo was located.

"Yes?" Pierre asked attentively.

Neal took his friend to an ostentatious restaurant favored by Eastern Europeans looking to spend ill-gotten gains. They ate well, drank far better, and watched a burlesque show featuring the large ladies favored by the bear-like man in a beautiful suit.

It made him happy to have made Pierre happy in a new town. They drank far too much, Pierre egging him on to join in on duets in assorted languages, and by the time Pierre was taking some of the tasseled and g-stringed ladies for a spin on the dance floor, the Bulgarians and the Russians in their flashy suits were clapping along.

By the end of the long night, the two men were so full of vodka it was streaming out of their eyes in tears of laughter, tears of something else they felt no need to specify. With his old comrade-in-arms, Neal decided that night, he would get through this undercover operation just fine.

"Would you like to go through the dossiers now?" Pierre was asking him in that office that was mostly for show.

"Maybe later. The big thing I need you to finish up is using your connections to map your way to the gaming group." He picked up the burner phone that had come in his Chinese takeout last night. He hit the speed-dial and then entered a code before handing the phone to Pierre so he could listen to the recording getting him up to speed with the FBI's latest intel on the gaming group. His friend took notes and hit the number that would repeat the message before looking up.

Neal loved working with another pro.

"This will be no problem at all. I recognize two of the names, and I have excellent contacts in both British and German finance. You tell me how fast you want your path to cross with one of them, and I will do the rest."

"Am I paying you extremely well, Pierre?" Neal smiled fondly.

"As far as the IRS is concerned?" his friend asked.

The one snag was that Mozzie had some odd phobia of Pierre, who he had worked with in the past and respected, but also feared as his doppelganger. "He's me if I had height, hair and a family history."

"I see the resemblance in that you both have hearts of gold and light fingers, but other than that—" Neal laughed. "He's my aboveground messenger and you're my belowground one-you'll have to find a way to get along."

And they must have, because when Neal left the building in his running clothes to walk over to the East Side park and jog down to the Lower East Side, Pierre was there, distracting the doorman with his best incomprehensible foreigner routine. Always good for at least five minutes with these hotel staff trained to please, Neal was able to leave with no one taking much note.

After several weeks of taking out his frustrations on the folding elliptical in his apartment, Neal was glad to be running. He tried to enjoy the movements, the sensation of knowing Peter was somewhere nearby…

A delivery van was parked in one of the empty parking lots near the extreme lower end of the park.

"Get in and be quick about it," he heard Mozzie's voice.

"This better not be—"

"It isn't, now get in already."

A sweaty Neal full of misgivings jumped in the back of the van.

"I know, I wasn't thrilled about the setting myself, but he assured me we're actually going somewhere," Peter said.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Neal said, embracing his lover in the jouncing back of the van half-filled with sheets and towels.

"And you—" Peter moved back so he could take in the changes. "My uncle was a sailor and he had tattoos much like this."

"I worked very hard for that effect, so thank you."

He traced the forearm tattoo and then peeked in Neal's shirt to see the bird. "Is it wrong that I like this?" he asked, touching the earrings. "I'm not used to seeing you look rough around the edges." He touched the more artsy-looking hair.

"It's okay to like it," Neal smiled. "A while back I had a disguise sort of like this, and realized I could pull off hipster if I had to."

"They said you had made some changes but I didn't expect to have a reaction to it," Peter said, placing Neal's hand illustratively. "I have some things to tell you," he breathed in his ear.

"Yeah, Peter, about that. I don't want our rare meetings to be about the case," Neal wriggled out of his grasp. "You've been undercover before. You can't wait to shed that skin and be yourself."

"Of course," Peter answered, soothing Neal's tense muscles with a big hand. "There've been some paintings I don't recognize in your photo stream. Tell me how that's going."

While they both knew the FBI man was no artist, they knew each other well enough by now to have established a sort of emotional vocabulary. First one, then the other, shared frustrations and anecdotes and the little daily things that make up so much of life. Peter was telling about the much-improved Terence's attempt to reason with one of his psychiatrists when they were both startled by Mozzie opening the van door.

"Don't bitch at me about this. It was the only thing I could do on short notice."

Jacques, the prizefighter who had driven around Peter in his mobile mental hospital that time, appeared and started emptying the linens from one of the wheeled carts in the back.

"No," Peter and Neal said together.

One by one they were wheeled into the interior of the hotel and into the room Mozzie had reserved for them. Peter, especially, had to tie himself in a knot to fit.

"It was worth it to sit on a bed next to you," Peter declared, pulling Neal down beside him. "Let me just say this and I won't mention anything else.

"Hughes knows. Yes. He knows. Since he's watching me like a hawk for any toe out of line, I moved back in with Elizabeth—to the guest room. They already sidelined me once, and I think the bureau is doing it again with your operation. That's why any I don't want to know what they've been telling you, because Hughes has me convinced he can read my mind."

Peter gave a miserable summary of part of his conversation with his boss.

"Shit. That's worse than I thought," Neal declared. "But Hughes is no Scott. He'd just as soon not be bothered with other people's issues. He'll leave you alone."

Peter nodded, not wanting to bring up his pesky instincts and what they had to say about the matter. "Let me see," he directed, beginning to unfasten his companion's clothes.

Neal grinned when the other man was stopped short by the new metallic addition to his body.

"Why do I like that so much?" Peter demanded. "I've never thought twice about that sort of thing." He inspected the ring thoroughly, obviously excited.

"This is you. This is us. Consider it a shorthand code," Neal explained, not wishing to go into the reason why he needed to have a reminder of Peter to counteract the occasional liaison for show.

He was satisfied to note that Peter's eagerness was such that it was unlikely he was sleeping with Elizabeth.

Neal was very satisfied by the time they fell asleep. He dreamed that he and Peter were laughing, jumping from iceberg to iceberg in a surprisingly balmy Antarctic sea. When he woke up very early in the morning, Peter was looking at him.

"I have to go," he whispered.

"All this secrecy is a little excessive at this point," Neal said, following him into the shower. "I'm hoping to make contact in the next week or so, but still—"

"They took out one of their own this week. Diana told me," Peter put in while soaping Neal's back. "Maybe this group has gotten all blown up out of proportion in my mind because I have nothing to do but worry about you, but—"

"Don't worry about me. The easy life doesn't agree with me so well, apparently, but other than that, I'm fine. You haven't met Pierre."

"They described him at the office as a taller, more lethal-looking Stephen Fry," Peter recalled. "Yes, the English actor, I had to look him up."

"I was going to say that you must be boning up on gay culture or something," Neal observed as they stepped out of the shower.

"Is he gay? How would I know?" Peter asked.

Neal indicated their bodies growing towards each other once again. "What do you call this?"

"Something the paparazzi would enjoy knowing, since you made Page 6 last week with an heiress on your arm," Peter said while regretfully getting dressed.

"Do I have to worry about you showing up at one of my pretentious gatherings, wearing a housecoat and calling the girl du jour a cheap floozie?"

"No. This holding pattern we're in right now may be uncomfortable but it's better than the alternative, which is our private lives not being private." Peter slipped on his jacket.

"When we go public, I want it to be on our terms, and I want it to be spectacular," Neal mused. "I'm thinking, I slap you in the middle of a restaurant for having a wandering eye, something like that."

"See you at Diana's wedding," Peter said at the door.

"I'll have to be in character, unfortunately, and half the FBI will be there, but maybe we can sneak away," Neal agreed. "Seeing you in a tux is always a treat."

Neal didn't have to go to work, so he let Peter sneak out the service entrance on his own. Only after he had sat with his pocket sketchpad for a few minutes did he put together the missing piece of his dream.

He and Peter had had to keep jumping from iceberg to iceberg because they couldn't find one that would sustain both of their weights.

"I think I'm losing it for sure this time," Peter complained to Terence, who he was taking out on a pass from the hospital as part of the preparation for his discharge. "You remember how you said if someone gets delusional it's really hard to fix?"

"Naw," his therapist said, digging into the real meal at the diner he'd chosen for his furlough dinner. "This guy Hughes, I've met him. He's a father figure to you, and you're all freaked out about him knowing you're dating a dude. When meanwhile, Hughes couldn't give two shits about you. He's thinking about retirement in his E-Z Boy recliner when he's looking off into space, not about you and Neal getting it on."

"Are you considering Hughes' offer to be brought in as a profiler on kidnappings, things like that?"

"It's the fluorescent lights, Peter. I don't do well inside. Thanks, though. Now my resume will be a real headscratcher the next time I apply for a groundskeeping job and list the FBI as my previous employer."

They laughed. "I guess it's selfish of me to want to have you at the office with me, Terence," Peter admitted. "You make everything seem so manageable, and right now, all I hear all day long is about this mysterious secret society that nobody will give me direct information about. It's paranoia-inducing."

Terence dug into a baked potato. "You know me, man, I have so many thoughts floating around in my head that I have to focus on the concrete. And you don't have much of anything concrete on this supposed secret society, so worry about something you can fix."

"Like what?" Peter asked warily.

"What do you picture yourself doing in five years? Uh uh," Terence held up his fork, "Not who do you picture yourself doing, but what?"

Peter's mouth opened and closed several times but he didn't speak. "I thought so. Your life had a track up until you got together with Neal, and now that pat answer doesn't roll off your tongue."

They finished dinner and Peter dropped his friend off at the hospital. If nothing else, Terence had told him about a using a trick that amateur criminals employ to beat polygraph tests—the tack in the shoe. "This is straight conditioning—one psychologist I saw recommended snapping yourself with a rubber band when you think bad thoughts, but the tack is more subtle."

Someone like Neal wouldn't need such a trick, of course, but his therapist counseled him that the distraction would be a good way to stop focusing on the terror that Hughes inspired in him now.

At least now Peter could sit through a meeting without looking everywhere but his supervisor's face. He went in to work that morning, confident that he wasn't exuding that "love vibe" his boss found so objectionable.

Just blending in was the FBI man's new measure of success, and he succeeded for the next couple days.

"All right, gang, ready to quit futzing around and get to the good part?" Hughes asked without preamble that Friday morning.

Littleton, the cryptographer, spoke up. "Whatever feelers Caffrey's assistant put out, they got to the right people almost immediately. We saw a flurry of communications activity go out to an even wider network than we've been following. They're excited to meet the man that Prentiss Scott told them so much about. Bets are flying around as to whether he's looking for someone to blame or looking for a piece of the action."

"Caffrey can handle himself with one hand tied behind his back," Hughes declared. "As we've discovered with the abrupt ruin of one player's business recently, the cardinal sin with this group is them turning on each other, so tread lightly with the IT mumbo jumbo, will you? From here on out, anything we do could be associated with Caffrey because of the timing."

"Hey, speaking of timing," Hughes said at the end of the meeting which was a relief to everyone, even Peter, most FBI agents sharing an allergy to the sit-and-wait phase of an investigation. "It's what, two weeks until you're off the market? Everything in place for you and Suzette?"

Only Jones, Peter and Hughes, who knew Diana best, were left in the room as she shared her last-minute plans and jitters. "Suzette has forbidden me to bother the caterers with one more worry, so instead I'm dreaming about running out of plates and people eating off saucers."

"I thought Peter's wife had her company on the job," Hughes remarked.

"No, Elizabeth and Diana talked about it and it would be too odd for Elizabeth to be a guest and the caterer," Peter explained. "Elizabeth will be giving most of my best man speech, I'll have you know, or else it's bound to be all of twenty seconds long."

"I'll be looking forward to it," Hughes said and walked out.

All of Diana's worry was very obviously focused on the dry old man walking down the hallway. "I hadn't really accounted for Hughes standing around and 'looking' at everything."

"Don't worry, Di, he won't stay long. Once you break out the booze for real, he's out the door," Jones said, slinging his arm around her. Her wedding had brought out a rare vulnerable side in the formidable female agent, and both Jones and Peter had been carrying some of her weight while her mind was elsewhere.

Peter hung back and kept Diana with him for a moment. "Don't worry about Hughes, I can 100% guarantee he won't be asking his droll little questions of your guests. Put it out of your mind."

No, what Hughes was really interested in about the wedding, Peter realized, was watching how Peter juggled the presence of his wife and his lover.


	20. Chapter 20

"If it isn't Neal Caffrey in the flesh," the woman said, rising from her desk in the office that was more like a glass perch looking down on the inner workings of an investment firm. "We have been wanting to meet you for some time."

Something in the intonation of the word 'we' made Neal look around.

"Yes, this conversation is being transmitted to many interested parties, and recorded for those who are not free to listen," the woman said with a vague gesture to the air. There was little in the office except a few pieces of art, so the place must be just as cunningly rigged for surveillance as the security at the door was set up to prevent it.

"I feel like your security man downstairs owes me a drink now that we're on such intimate terms," Neal said, aware he was being studied.

"Forgive me, I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Marina DeGioia." She extended her hand and then laughed. "Of course, you would be nervous about shaking hands. Please, sit." The woman who had invited Neal to her office was about 45, quite short, well-preserved, black hair cut into a short bob that swayed right around her prominent cheekbones. "You'll find that etiquette gets all mixed up in our circle, because we know a great deal about some things and nothing at all about others."

"I think I'm at a bit of a disadvantage in that respect," Neal said, completely relaxed because his mixture of aversion and curiosity for this group was not an act.

"Your assistant found us very quickly, and was even more skilled at assuring us you came, if not in peace, at least with none of your criminal friends in tow."

At points Marina seemed to be listening to a hidden conversation, and she looked away for a moment. "Then you really don't know very much about me, because I'm not the type to hire hitmen," Neal said drily. "But you were right about one thing. I only want to understand."

Marina stood up and retrieved some glass bottles of sparkling water from a small embedded refrigerator. "Perfectly safe, I assure you. As is the office, which is why I chose to invite you here, for your reassurance."

"Yes, I did appreciate being able to leave my canary at home." Neal sniffed. The air smelled of a light mixture of citrus and jasmine. It smelled expensive. He made a mental note to always have someone in his life to alert him if his space ever started to smell like that.

"Most of us have never met each other in person. Everything is done through employees and assistants. But then, you are a very special case, Mr. Caffrey, and we've already seen each other twice this month."

"Yes, at that art opening with the yarn and all the interactive SMS messages being projected upon it—'TEXT-iles'—I liked it, other than the title." Neal searched his memory.

"And, oh yes, the Whitney, but I have seen a little bit of you regularly since being released from prison. You only started collecting in earnest when I was out of the game."

"Once my husband died and there was no one driving the business into the ground, I was finally able to pursue my real interests." Marina burst out laughing suddenly. "Can you see his face?" she asked an invisible watcher. "No, Neal, may I call you Neal?" She didn't wait for an answer. "We're not in the business of murder. My husband had a genetic heart ailment that finally caught up with him."

"I'm sorry, Marina, but maybe you could tell me exactly what you're in the business of, and then we can go from there."

"Adjustments," she said, looking over the top of her scarlet-framed spectacles she wore on a chain around her neck. Everything she was wearing, and much of the room, was red, white or black.

"Adjustments. As in karmic adjustments?"

"Very well said. But since most of us are in the financial sphere, it doesn't feel as though the deal is sealed until money changes hands. Hence the wagers. But most of all we consider it to be a developing science, and the real pleasure is in exchanging techniques and explaining how a man, externally upstanding, can be inwardly corrupt, rotten. And how such a man-who could go on forever as he is, using the momentum of a long-vanished virtue-how he can be made to reconcile his two natures. Take a bribe, perhaps. Accept an illegal business transaction—"

"I believe I've met a man such as you describe," Neal said, sipping his drink. "Was choking on a handful of dolls and champagne your—" he swept his hands around to encompass his invisible audience–"Your doing?"

Marina touched a device in her ear and gave him her full attention. "You're upset. You're looking for someone to blame. And that is natural after what you've been through. But dear Neal, you have nothing to fear from us. You won!"

"I won some crazy bastard's fortune and monthly checkups on my kidneys?"

"You won your freedom." She pointed to his leg. "No tracking anklet."

Neal laughed a bitter laugh that surprised him. "Having a suddenly very rich person as the indentured servant of the white collar division didn't wash very well. Especially with that person suddenly very well-represented legally and thus in a position to sue over almost getting killed in an operation he wasn't even aware he was a part of—" He took a deep breath. "It was an embarrassing situation the FBI was glad to have washed their hands of." He didn't realize how far the FBI had gone down in his estimation recently.

The look in Marina's eyes was one of deep sympathy. "Neal, it may not seem like it now, but you'll right yourself very soon. That's what I want, what we want. You deserve a second chance after what you've been through."

Neal rubbed his eyes to buy himself a moment to think. If this woman was good at detecting lies, Neal was twice as good, and she seemed sincere. "Remember Scott seemed sincere, too," his brain told himself. "So the idea is, you put people to the test and if they aren't totally destroyed, they win a prize?"

She gave an impatient gesture. "Let me start at the beginning. Each of us, for one reason or another, found ourselves attracted to this pastime-of giving human nature certain choices and seeing which way the chips fell. More meaningful than a roulette wheel, I think you'll agree, particularly when there is a great deal of skill in laying these paths without seeming to be involved.

"Prentiss Lloyd Scott was the original systematizer, and a brilliant player. Unfortunately he began to lose a sense of proportion." Neal couldn't suppress a snort. "Perhaps someone should have realized. He was retiring more and more from business pursuits that were ceasing to have meaning, but that happens to successful people very often. Me, I mostly concentrate on art rather than finance, in addition to this hobby of course.

"Throughout the year, we meet—always virtually—pose scenarios and take wagers, but mostly we share tips and experiences, always looking to push the science of human nature further."

"Such as with exotic chemicals?"

She gave a wry smile. "I'm a purist, as are many of us. But some have tried that route, yes."

"What was the wager on me?"

"You mean the amount or the stakes? I have no idea. Really I don't. The end of the year competition abides by totally different rules—meaning little sharing until the great reveal. And Scott didn't live long enough to reveal what his plan for you was, though he did have us on the edge of our seats all year as he told us more about you. A very talented criminal and an artist of rare passion, he called you. A mass of opposites."

"He was totally cracked," Neal said bluntly.

"I'm sure he was, yes, certainly he was," Marina said soothingly. "Which is why we've started having a face-to-face with at least one member of the group every so often. You and I, we move in the same circles, so it's quite natural we would fall in together."

Neal fell back on his trick of thinking of something pleasant so he wouldn't reveal his true feelings about 'falling in with' Marina DeGioia. He thought of Peter.

"Now that I think we've established that you have nothing to fear from us, Neal Caffrey, are you still interested in learning more? You could walk away right now, and as long as you respect our privacy we will continue to respect yours."

"Yes, Pierre told me that a VIP lost everything recently, someone he had been looking at as a possible contact for this group."

"The person you are referring to did something unforgivable, in that he invited a second person to take a wager, totally off the books, about a third member of the group. Every pastime has rules, or it's total chaos, isn't it?" DeGioia asked reasonably. "I suppose it's only natural that you would have concerns about how this works. Perhaps it would be good for you to try a wager or two, to see our psychological investigations in action?"

Neal was congratulating himself on how easily he'd gotten in to the ring when he heard his hostess asking, "You must have many scores to settle with your criminal types. We're all dying to see your methods in action—there's a lot to learn from you, Neal."

"We don't—I don't know how to explain it. Crooks tend to be a little too busy for elaborate payback schemes. And honestly, I'm the kind that sheds my skin and doesn't look back. Most of my underground friends stopped talking to me when I went to the FBI, and the Feds have these bursting files on Neal Caffrey, master criminal, and think there's nothing more to be learned."

"Well, I don't feel that way at all," the woman said in a motherly tone. Then she reflected. "And perhaps it would be better to start out with people who are more recognizable. None of us, I think it's safe to say, have any intersection with your underworld connections, and thus we have to take your word for it that so-and-so, a violent scoundrel, was finally caught at being a sadist."

"There would be the police report," Neal pointed out, not sure that he disliked any criminal enough to put them under the scrutiny of the group.

"The police," Marina said with real disdain. "Were they ever in the business of justice?"

"Since I've seen charges magically appear and disappear from my record, with little to do with what I actually did or did not do, I'd have to say probably not," Neal smiled. "But I have come across a couple of people you might recognize—I don't feel comfortable revealing any past activities that I wasn't specifically exonerated for, you understand," he unfurled his full smile.

"How exciting," Marina said with just a smidge too much excitement.

"But now that I have the means, I was planning on at least making a sort of statement to these people. You know, they're the kind that think regular people aren't made of the same stuff as they are, so something to the effect of 'I'm in your world now, and I remember what you did,' that kind of thing."

Not at all sure whether he worded it right, Neal was relieved to find his hostess nodding. "That would be very good. Someone with whom we can all track your progress, learn from your methods. Starting wager is normally $10,000. I can show you how to disseminate the proposal through the network. Or I can have this information transmitted securely to your assistant, if you prefer."

Neal leaned back, suddenly exhausted. "Yes, that would be best, because Pierre is very particular in his way of managing my affairs." Actually, Neal wanted to make sure that his "assistant" was part of everything he did. He didn't want to be alone in this matter, and Pierre was always a stabilizing influence.

He stared at the woman smiling at him from that glass precipice where the noise of business was just a hum. "Just like that, I'm in? That makes me a bit nervous about your other security precautions."

She looked at him steadily over her glasses. "You've been in our sights for some time, Neal. We don't believe that you pose a threat to any of us. And I've told you we want only the best for you."

Neal felt a sudden chill but tipped up the glass bottle to finish his beverage. "Pierre will be in touch, then, with our details." He stopped. "Thank you, Marina. It's actually a great relief to start to give a form to this amorphous force I've been living with for some time." He stretched out his hand. "It's a huge weight off my mind."

Marina grasped his hand and shook it warmly. "If there's ever anything I can do—my contacts for buying or selling art might be useful for you."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll see you at the opening at the Guggenheim next week."

Neal left the office with a spring in his step. He stopped in to see Pierre and forced himself to spend an hour looking at potential candidates for a karmic adjustment. Then, he went back to his apartment to use the equipment Mozzie had advised him to buy to check for any bugs he might have picked up at the meeting. His instincts had been right—there weren't any. He called Pierre and asked him to order another set for the office.

Feeling lighter with his first contact finally established with the group, Neal changed clothes and went for a run. He stopped for a stretch and made a call using his dedicated phone, leaving a detailed message to the number the FBI had set up for him. "She said in not so many words that they have eyes on me—please keep that in mind on your end."

Neal jogged a little more so he could drive in the last sentence, which was equally meant for himself. He'd learned from Prentiss Scott that sometimes the worst thing you can do is get on someone' good side, and this lady seemed to have a soft spot for him. At least they didn't say anything about his love life.

It was only smart to stay far away from Peter at Diana's wedding in a few weeks, but picturing his tuxedoed lover at the far end of a rented hall was enough to wash away all the remaining conflict Neal felt about his mission now in progress.

A few weeks previously, Hughes sat in his glass cage and took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. No one was bothering him. They didn't, as a rule, so much anymore. He was like the great dinosaur who lumbered out of his lair every once in awhile, roared a little bit, and then went back. When everything started being about computers, the FBI agent had kept himself afloat better than others of his cohort, many of whom took advantage of the changes in white collar crime to find cushy posts where they could make others take care of the details.

But Hughes had endured. His marriages notwithstanding, the veteran agent was good at what he did precisely because of his grasp of human nature-he never lost sight of the person cooking the books. People weren't balance sheets. They were messier and more interesting.

He put on his glasses once more and read the notes left by the profiler on the Scott case. The yellow legal pad had been boxed up with everything else from that phase of the investigation, and had thus come to the attention of Hughes.

The handwriting wasn't great but the notes were collections of ideas and full sentences, so the FBI supervisor was able to make some sense out of them. The last entries were the ones that had interested him from the get-go, when he read them right after Scott's death.

"People always justify the hell out of what they do. Rich people give to causes to show what good people they are. How does somebody go from writing their monthly check to the Police Benevolent Association to betting on whether they can ruin somebody's life? Can't put a price tag on it, can't write it off on your taxes. No way there's not a paper trail. Scott's not like the rest—throwing off our calculations. Need to find out what makes a bunch of people sitting around in their fancy offices in Singapore, Japan, France, NYC get all riled up enough to be invested in exposing an affair some random dude is having with some other random person."

That was the last of the rational notes. Thankfully, there was only one more page. The rest was gibberish, a sign of the poor man losing his marbles. Hughes had a lot of sympathy for people who had to resist temptation on daily basis. Manic-depressives, addicts like himself, thieves like Caffrey.

Caffrey. Hughes had always liked the kid but felt no need to follow him around with a dustpan and broom, waiting for him to make a mess so he could capture the evidence and show everybody. The man would sink or swim, that was none of Hughes' concern, but in the meantime, what a mind to have at their disposal.

But Burke's thing, damn him, Burke had no subtlety, he'd never had to learn it. He was an excellent agent when it came to black and white cases, but somehow Neal Caffrey had opened up the man's eyes to the other colors in the spectrum and now—

Hughes got a can of mineral water from his personal refrigerator and put a couple of herbal drops recommended for anxiety in it.

He knew all about the allure of the forbidden. Hughes' second, short-lived marriage had been to a young woman he met through A/A, someone he knew full well hadn't put her partying days behind her.

But these two, this criminal and his overly earnest keeper had somehow developed something that was enough to make Hughes' toes curl when he was in the same room with them.

The old agent knew that he'd gotten to the point in his life when he needed to see things happen in other people's lives because not much was going to happen in his own. So the fact that part of him was rooting for this unlikely flame that was burning so hot for so long didn't surprise him.

What did was the next thought. Maybe what the profiler was getting at was that this secret society wasn't made up of people who were overtly insane, like Scott must have been.

They might be people like Hughes, who'd all but given up on justice in the world, and were sorely in need of a moral victory.

For dried-up people like himself, this epic Burke-Caffrey love affair might be very interesting indeed. And any failings in that epic relationship might be even more compelling.

"Damn you to hell, Burke." Hughes had too many things on his mind without having to keep one eye on an angle he couldn't publicly acknowledge, made up of two completely unpredictable people.

The day of Diana's wedding finally came. After some consultation with Neal, she had decided upon a tuxedo with a very feminine jacket that had a ruffled peplum like a frock coat. Suzette was wearing a short, white dress, no lace, just white satin and a similar ruffle as the one on Diana's jacket.

"I didn't want to be too matchy-matchy, but do we look like we're getting married to each other?" Diana asked Elizabeth before the ceremony.

"You both look beautiful, and yes, you look like you belong together. Not like one wedding I catered where the groomsmen were all wearing a Star Trek theme and the bride got her way with a huge fantasy train. Not a good omen."

"Thank you, Elizabeth. You've been here every step of the way for me—I had no idea planning a wedding was enough to bring a badass like me to my knees."

"She's not half as badass as she pretends," Suzette observed, slinging an arm around her mate.

"We need to create some superstition about the brides seeing each other before the wedding, because you're going to make me cry already," Diana protested, dabbing at her mascara. "Out!"

"I didn't want to bring it up in front of Suzette, because you don't know her as well—"

"I'm fine. Peter's on his way, and we're both so happy for you and that's what we'll be focusing on. As, I'm sure, will Neal."

"Do you know who his plus-one is?"

"Not a clue, but hopefully nobody too famous."

It was a beautiful ceremony during which everyone managed to keep it together until the point at which the minister said, "I now pronounce you wife and wife," and one lone sniffle set off a wildfire of emotion. Whatever was supposed to happen at that point was forgotten as the two women stood arm in arm, watching their friends and family blubber like fools. Peter stood nearby with a big smile, taking advantage of the general emotion to exchange a glance with Neal for the first time. For a few seconds, the heiress or starlet or whoever she was next to Neal didn't exist, and it was only the two men, in on the secret of love.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Diana said of the new marriage law.

"But it happened to us," her new spouse said.

"I think you need to break out the good booze, stat," Peter relayed in a stage whisper.

The two women walked through the crowd of their loved ones, receiving congratulations and leading the way to the hotel hall where the caterers had been at work.

After most had a chance to gulp down a glass of wine, people seemed calmer, and Elizabeth nodded at Diana before she stepped forward with Peter for the best man speech he was going to give the introduction for.

"I hope it stays in this room that the best way to totally immobilize a bunch of FBI agents is for one of their own to tie the knot," Peter joked. "And I want to tell you why I was so moved by these two ladies exchanging vows." Elizabeth darted a glance at Diana—Peter was off-script.

"This is not an against-all-odds speech. What I see before me are two classy women who did the impossible—they made falling in love look easy, and every single thing I've seen them do together since has been graceful, and giving. And I have every reason to believe that they're going to continue making the hard work of living look easy, just to remind the world that it can be done. Something wonderful can happen in life, and because these two are smart, they've found a way to make it stay."

Suzette handed Diana a kleenex.

"Diana is family to me, so all I want to say is, welcome to the family, Suzette."

Peter put his arm around Elizabeth, and the toasts continued. "I can tell he appreciated that," she whispered to him.

"I meant it for all of us, not just Neal. Things aren't too graceful for the three of us right now," Peter replied from behind the pleasantly neutral expression he'd been perfecting recently.

Two FBI couples they knew came up and Peter and Elizabeth were absorbed into the routine that had sustained them for a number of years.

"Why do you keep looking at that woman?" pouted Violet, the society girl Neal had chosen as his current flame because she had a perpetually bored expression and a languid way of flouncing around that served to distance people.

"She's an old friend," Neal said, following her gaze to where his eye had been unconsciously tracking Peter next to Elizabeth.

"An old girlfriend?" Violet persisted. She was a showstopper, and people who read the society column had whispered when they walked in. But she was also endlessly insecure, and Neal had seen the telltale mannerisms with her nose when he picked her up before the wedding—evidently she felt more confident about dealing with an unfamiliar environment with a sprinkle of coke. "There's not much to her."

Whether this was a comment on Elizabeth's diminutive stature or her character, Neal could only laugh at Violet's estimation. "I want to introduce you to someone, Violet," he said, and brought her over to Jones, who had goggled at the six-foot-tall strawberry blonde when Neal arrived.

"Jones, this is Violet. She's very interested in firearms." Actually, she seemed to have an interest in anything bloodthirsty, and was always fishing for violent, mob-connected tales from Neal's past.

The music was starting, and Neal sidled up to an Elizabeth who was talking to other FBI wives. "May I have this dance?"

They glided off together. "I forgot how good of a dancer you were," he told her while studying her face. "How are you? I've been worried about you."

Elizabeth laughed shortly. "You worry about me, I worry about Peter, he worries about you. Let's take a night off from all that. I think we learned the other night that we don't have to be this lowest common denominator together."

Neal looked at the woman in his arms, someone so rich and deep there was no end to her—that's what he looked for in a woman, someone who made him have to stretch a little to keep up. "If things were a little different for you and me, Elizabeth," he said, swinging her lightly this way and that, her body responding perfectly to the pressure of his hand on her waist.

She gave him a look through her lashes that comprehended everything. "In another world, but not this one." Elizabeth's voice was bittersweet. "I don't think my life is going to have any lightness for awhile."

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you now," he breathed in her ear. "The thing about you, Elizabeth, is where other people brood or let things fester, you disappear. It's easy for me to see now after our evening together. There was barely a slip of you present when I saw you as I was walking in."

"It's nice to come out of hiding," she said, fingering the material of his suit. "During a dry spell I know how to survive on very little."

"Under ordinary circumstances I'd tell you to leave the bastard, he's not worth it," Neal said ironically.

"It's odd, but it was so much easier when I had to look at Peter being happy with you. Now he's completely closed off, and I'm forced to see that I can't help."

Neal had opened his mouth to reply when suddenly Violet was there, looming above him.

"What is it with this bitch?" she demanded, obviously having seen nothing wrong with having a little coke in the bathroom at an event crawling with law enforcement. "Find your own man," she said to Elizabeth.

It was too similar to the jealous scenario they'd jokingly played out together, and fatally, Neal and Elizabeth started to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" Violet's bravado was quickly slipping into vulnerability. "Why are you laughing?"

"I'm sorry, Violet, it was wrong of me to leave you, sweetheart," Neal was trying to say with his best smile on. The last thing either of them needed was for her to get busted, and he could sense Diana's concerned eyes on his back.

"Neal's a much better dancer than I am, so my wife enjoys cutting a rug with him when she gets a chance," Peter walked up to say, looking everywhere but Neal's face. "We haven't met. I'm Peter Burke; I used to work with Neal."

Peter extended his hand and shook Violet's hand awkwardly. It seemed so odd to him—this random woman who was so obviously not Neal's type was allowed to touch him, but Peter was not.

"Yes, Violet probably looks familiar to you—she's well known for her fashion sense," Neal jumped in to help excuse Peter's frank look.

"That must be it," Peter said. He caught Neal's rather frantic expression, and remembered the surprise he had planned for Diana. "Did Neal ever tell you about the time he impersonated a New Age guru to help unmask a moneymaking scheme?"

"No kidding!" Violet said, and Neal mouthed a silent thank you as he slipped off with Elizabeth.

"Yes, and another time, I pretended to have a severe social phobia, and he was my life coach," Peter recalled, trying to think of ways to keep the girl distracted.

"I think I have one of those for real," she said. "I was nervous about coming here."

"Don't you basically go to parties for a living?" Peter asked and then wondered whether that was rude.

She laughed. "I model, too. And I've done a little acting. But I see mostly the same people, all the time, lots of people I've known my whole life. When I'm outside my element, everything I do feels all weird, like people are looking at me through one of those carnival mirrors."

"I kind of have the same problem," Peter confided, getting them both glasses of sparkling water rather than alcohol. "Maybe that's why I joined the FBI—it's a very tight-knit group."

"Guess your situation is better 'cause you have a gun and you're in control." Violet mused. "If you're feeling shy you can say, 'I ask the questions here, shithead.'"

"No criminal has ever faulted me for my inability to do chit chat," Peter laughed. He suddenly looked at this girl by his side and saw her as something other than a headline or a clothes horse. That wasn't even how he'd been seeing her, he realized. She was something for Neal to endure, to prove to Peter he wasn't having a good time in his undercover persona. Now Peter felt terrible to be complicit in such a scenario, even if the girl was rambling in a hyper tone of voice.

Musing on this new idea, he tuned her out for a minute. "I was pretty sure Neal was gay but I guess he's not," he suddenly heard her say.

"What made you think that?"

"Because he's kind of somewhere else a lot of the time. A lot of gay guys are like that, but it's cool, because they know you have a dream because they have their own, it's just never going to be the same one. It's, like, a beautiful, sad dream and they let you have it. A lot of times it's better than being with a real boyfriend who's totally hung up on his band or something."

Peter saw Elizabeth come back into the room and his heart wanted to break for making her live with a dream.

Violet followed his eyes. "I still think you should be careful of your wife. I haven't seen Neal relax so much as when he was with her, and she lit up like Christmas to see him. She's got that substance thing going, and that must have been what pissed me off so bad."

"You have a lot more going for you than you give yourself credit for, Violet," Peter said, feeling he was talking to a coked-up prophet. "Tell me what else you've noticed about Neal. None of us have heard much from him since he left the bureau."

She shrugged. "He paints all the time and has me pose sometimes. I like how he's real careful with me, like I'm made of glass or something. A lot of guys treat models like they're mannequins come to life, and we have no feelings. Neal knows how to make a lady feel like a lady, and that's something gay guys are good at, too."

One of Suzette's friends stood up and struck her wineglass to get everyone's attention. The music stopped. "Our newlyweds are going to cut the cake, so gather round."

Diana and Suzette cut into the cake and then raised a fork to the other's mouth to feed each other a first bite. Just as the cake made it close to their open mouths, an unearthly sound reverberated through the hall.

It was Neal's famous insider trading aria.

The two brides missed each other's mouths and Diana doubled over laughing at the expression on Suzzette's face and that of everyone not from the FBI who couldn't understand why someone was singing opera in a falsetto.

Neal strode into the room, still singing, and the FBI contingent clapped and cheered. He sang through to the end and then transitioned into "It Had To Be You."

"Oh my god, that is so hilarious," Violet clapped her hands while Peter told her the story. "I had no idea it was so fun to be in the FBI, other than being able to say," she dropped her voice, "Step the fuck back, I'm from the FBI."

"The first time I said it I'd practiced it fifty times in front of the mirror beforehand," Peter admitted.

"No shit, show me how you say it," Violet prompted.

"FBI, drop your weapon," Peter said in a way that was nothing like being in the field, but it was good enough for Violet.

"Holy crap, that's so badass."

"The trick is, you drop your voice on the 'I.' Always remember that—if you want to seem strong, don't fall into the habit of ending your sentences on a high note."

The young woman tried to imitate him, but the effect was ruined by her giggling. "You're fun, Peter. And sweet. You're like the kind of guy I wish I could have—smart, strong, solid." She thumped his bicep. "Your wife should take better care of what she has or someone else will."

Violet took advantage of the momentary paralysis her words produced in Peter, and her crafty smile was on his mouth before he could react. It was a very thorough kiss. "Consider that a big thank you for entertaining me," she said, striding away with a vixen's gait to reclaim Neal, who had finished singing and was being hugged by Diana.

Peter didn't know where to look or whose eyes to fear most—those of Neal, Elizabeth, or Hughes. He wasn't sure if any of them had seen, but Jones had, because his fellow agent's stunned expression was the mirror of Peter's reaction to the kiss. Hughes was approaching the newlyweds to take his leave, as he tended to before the night wore on too long.

"That was nice of you to take charge of Violet so Neal could do his surprise number," Elizabeth said from his elbow. "He was mortified when we were setting up the sound. Neal had never known her to use cocaine before. Peter, do you think it's all right?"

"Nobody's in the mood to go to work right now," he said. "And she's actually pretty interesting—but maybe used to people thinking otherwise."

Peter looked down at his wife, who was not the person who had been dancing, and not the person with whom he'd shared a wedding, all those years ago. Then, he used to see a light come into her eyes when she looked at him, and it made him feel like the best of himself was rushing to meet the best in her, like magnetic fibers that couldn't be kept separate for long.

Now it was simply a fact. A veil slipped over their eyes when they saw each other. For Elizabeth, it was a protection, designed to keep that last tiny hope alive.

But even in this instance, they were not on the same wavelength. Because for Peter, it was a curtain carefully drawn so as not to wound Elizabeth with the light that burned for another.

He put his arm around her as they watched people drink and take turns singing karaoke. Peter kissed the top of her head and she looked up and smiled. A smile of infinite patience. He thought of the way Neal moved next to Violet, how he obviously treated the girl like a penance and hated himself for it.

Peter hadn't even had the sense to hate himself for what he was doing to Elizabeth, the last woman in the world he wanted to diminish in any way.

"This must be hard for you—don't you think you could afford to talk to him a little?" his wife was asking him, misinterpreting his saddened expression as being due to his forced separation from his lover.

Abruptly, Peter wanted to scream. "I have to start making changes. This isn't fair to Elizabeth," Peter was telling himself when Neal and Violet breezed by.

"You should come out with us," Violet said, squeezing his arm. "He's fun," she said to Neal.

"Peter is fun," he agreed, but the look on Neal's face was closer anguish than anything else.

"We're leaving soon, but maybe some other time," Peter said. "Take care of yourself, Violet."

"You too, Peter," she said, dropping her voice several octaves at the end of the sentence.

Then it was time for protracted goodbyes.

Peter was called into work that Sunday to help with the new strategy for Neal's first wager with the group. White Collar needed to be able to track the money he bet, and the messages he left, without leaving a discernible trail.

The FBI was full of hope that they were laying the groundwork that would catch a network of sadists, who thought themselves to be invulnerable, in a crime.

A month went by without Peter having to think about anything but work. He was tired at the end of the day and very grateful for being able to fall asleep without worrying about how to make his outward actions more in line with his inner feelings. Short of having to take a drastic step like quitting his job.

Then on Monday morning Hughes called him into his office. Since Peter hadn't been doing more than exchanging a coded sentence with Neal a day, his conscience was clear when he closed the door behind him.

"How've you been, Burke?" was the unusual opening to the conversation.

"Fine, sir. Busy."

"A little too busy, perhaps?" The eyes looking over the glasses gave him an appraising glance.

"Work is work, sir."

"Not feeling under the weather at all, are we, Burke? You seem a little subpar, to tell you the truth."

"You know things are up and down with this job, sir."

"I do indeed. That's why I'm asking you to go to the doctor." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "As much as I loathe having this conversation, Caffrey tested positive for Mononucleosis during his regular kidney checkup. I'd prefer for you get this taken care of now, rather than being out for two months, like what happened to Carter last year. And I assume you wouldn't want a positive result on your official record."

"But sir, I haven't even seen Neal—"

"Save it, Burke, I'd rather not talk any more about your love life."

Peter took the piece of paper and then was seized by a vain hope. "Does this mean that Neal gets out of his obligation to the bureau?"

Hughes snorted. "His lawyers tried that, but given the number of starlets he's been photographed with, he could have gotten it from any of them. Get the test and let's move on."

Peter was shocked to find out that he had, in fact, contracted mono, when he hadn't even kissed Neal during the incubation period for the illness.

Despite his best efforts, he had to stay home for almost a week with the rash, night sweats and sore throat associated with the infection. He lay there, too tired to move, but with his brain telling him that it was Violet, Violet's kiss had put him in the position of having a suspicious illness right when the FBI was abuzz with Neal's attempt to get out of his agreement because of his exposure to an infectious agent.

"How are you feeling, Peter?" someone from Team B said on his first morning back.

"Must've caught a bug, but I'm on the mend."

"Glad you're okay, man," Jones said.

All day long, an exhausted Peter tried to cling to some sense of normalcy but he felt his life beginning to shift underneath him because of a suspicion that had begun eating away at his foundations. He saw it staring out of all the eyes around him.

Did they know? They must know. Hughes already knew, but now he must think Peter was flaunting his affair.

He had to talk to Neal.


	21. Chapter 21

Terence's earnest face looked up from the group and broke into a golden grin. "Hey ya'll, let's quit early—my mental health is always better when I can go outside appreciate some nature."

Peter entered the pleasant lodge room with unfinished beams and big picture windows as the last group participants filed out. "It's good to see you Terence," he said, slapping his friend on the back. "Why did you stop? I think I could use some of what you were talking about. Cognitive shaping. Positive self-talk."

"Here man, sit down. You're a sight for sore eyes, Peter. You're like a whiff of the city, and I mean that in a good way."

The two men studied each other. "How do I measure up?" Terence asked.

"You look healthier than I've ever seen you—a month in the Jersey woods is like magic." Peter shook his head at the difference between the still-shaky man who he'd seen transferred from the hospital to the outdoorsy treatment program where he would be a half-resident, half-trial counselor. "And the director has been raving to me about your work."

"And you—look like you might could use your own month in the wilderness," Terence said candidly. "If you came all the way up here for a therapy session, things must not be good."

Peter sidestepped that observation. "I actually came to see if you'd want to come back with me, but you seem so settled—"

"Really? I can pack up in less than 20," Terence jumped up and Peter followed him to his bunk.

"Wait, don't you want to know the details?"

The counselor was throwing clothes into his duffle bag. "I've about had it with being around a bunch of mental patients. That sounds terrible, but what I mean is," he sorted through some magazines, throwing some in the trash. "I've heard all these stories before. Anyone I've treated earlier has been through Mozzie, and these are criminals and weirdos whose lives I haven't lived. People that are full of fight, even if they don't know who they should be fighting."

Peter put all of the medicine bottles in a paper bag he found lying around. "From what I know of your life, Terence, it's not for the faint of heart."

The other man stopped his process of scooping up loose change. "I guess I never put it together like this until I came to this place, but I don't think that all mental patients are the same—it's that life tends to treat us the same. Whatever you've got, I'll take the chance."

Peter used his badge and his power of attorney to help speed up Terence's exit from the treatment program that didn't want to see their peer counselor go. Half an hour later they were getting into Peter's car with an extra set of prescription slips just in case.

"You've got me interested, Peter, what's happening with the case?"

The FBI agent pulled a sheaf of papers out of the glove box. "You have to sign these before we can talk."

His therapist spent a few minutes looking through the legalese. "Damn, are they afraid I'm going to off myself, and that's why I have to sign so much more than last time?"

"No," Peter said with his eyes on the road. "It's because the network has started focusing on me, and there's a chance they could set their sights on you, too. Think before you sign."

"Give me the damn pen." Terence signed all of the dotted lines in a hurry. "Talk."

On the way back to the city, Peter got his friend caught up on everything up to his bout of mono and his best guess that Violet infected him on purpose.

"And you've talked to this chick?"

"She immediately left for some high-profile modeling job in Europe. Can't get a hold of her."

"Uh huh, very convenient. She and Neal met how?"

"He says some woman from his art studio introduced them at a party, but this art student says Violet was the one that asked to be introduced."

"Somebody wanted Violet to cross paths with Neal, and probably you, but we don't know who," Terence observed. "At least Jones witnessed the kiss."

Peter groaned. "You'd think it would clear up any suspicion, but it's worked in the opposite way. If both Neal and I got mono, people would be scratching their heads wondering why we were both targeted. I could have shrugged it off as a coincidence. But Jones saw somebody intentionally draw a line," he traced a line with one hand in the air, "between me and my former CI. And the conversations at work have been ten times more pointed than they would have been, I think."

"Anything else?" Terence inquired thoughtfully.

"Funny you should ask." Peter took a sip from his water bottle. "The day I came back from being out sick, I find an affidavit on my desk—someone I arrested a year and a half ago is alleging I used excessive force.'"

"What did you arrest him for?"

"There were three agents watching me cuff this guy as I arrested him for embezzling money from his employer. I didn't so much as bang his head on the roof of the car when I put him inside."

"That's it?"

"The excessive force allegation, though it will certainly be proved untrue, triggered an automatic psych eval because I had a strike against me with the Scott case."'

"Which could get you a big scarlet C for crazy that you don't need." Terence chuckled suddenly. "I wanted to get out of the chalet so bad I didn't think to ask-why is the FBI wanting me back so bad if they know I'm an unqualified nut?"

"Let me tell you the other thing, first," Peter interrupted. "I've been pulled over five times because my license tag and car are listed as stolen, and then they run my badge number and it says inactive. But then they search another way and I'm Peter Burke, FBI agent, and it's all fine. And my bank account keeps transferring money to Elizabeth's business account and back, for no reason."

"Not to be insensitive, but that's some pretty impressive hacking, if that's how they're doing it."

Peter nodded tiredly.

"How's Neal?" Terence asked softly.

"That's a very good question. The mono hit him pretty hard since his system had been weakened so recently. Right when I was getting back on my feet, Mozzie told me they hospitalized Neal for observation. I did the logical thing." He smiled. "Had Mozzie make me a fake ID and I went to the hospital."

Terence sat up straight. "You went against FBI orders?"

"No, Edgar Trimble did, if you look on the patient registry, but I decided that I may be a lot of things." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "A terrible husband. The weakest link at the bureau. But I'm not going to sit around with Neal in the hospital. Not that he was alone!" He laughed. "I had to fight to get Mozzie and Neal's assistant Pierre out of the room, and you'll see him, Pierre is enormous."

"Is Neal going to be okay?"

"They discharged him after two days, and he's taking it easy. Sworn off the starlets for now." Peter couldn't suppress a smile. "But the bureau is mainly working with Pierre anyway, trying to bring down this American financier he's dealt with in the past. This fellow wasn't half as gifted in business as someone like Pierre, but he runs in the highest circles. They suspect him of laundering money for a cartel. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I try to be very cordial with Neal's assistant now that I see his networking skills."

Peter realized that he was taking pleasure in the sort of mind games that were ruining his own life. "So far, they've found baggage handlers willing to put things into the man's luggage every time he travels, which is more evocative than making sure it gets lost. The guy keeps having to fight these phantom charges for calls to Colombia on his phone bill, though he keeps his personal phone completely clean. Oh, and Pierre has managed to move money from his aboveboard account to a hidden account and vice-versa. Or at least make it seem like that's what happened. "

"Has anything else bad happened to you? How long ago was Neal discharged?" his passenger asked.

"A little over week ago. And no, but it's just a matter of time." The FBI agent switched gears. "But in answer to your earlier question, Hughes is dying to have you back. We've had three profilers and none lasted more than two days. It's—unusual—for Hughes to take much of a liking to anyone, but he must have his reasons."

Terence nodded. "You don't have to beat around the bush, I've known enough alcoholics in my day." He laughed at the other man's surprise. "There's something about the way they drink their coffee. If it's real caffeine, they cradle it like the last drug they're allowed to have, and if it's decaf, then it's this golden memory of the last drug. Go to an A/A meeting, you'll see what I mean." His face turned serious. "But I won't go back to 9-5."

"He doesn't care. You meet agents in the park like you did me; it's all on your terms. Hughes said they have enough book-smart people and need some common sense."

"That's another thing about alcoholics—they are really into suffering as a learning tool. I could do without it, myself, but if it means I get to do interesting work, I'm up for it."

They rode a little ways in silence. "Where exactly do you have me lined up to live?" Terence asked cautiously.

"You have the trust fund from Neal. That's a given. But I hesitate to let you rent an apartment with no support. I'd feel better if you had a roommate at first."

Terence groaned. "You can't just shove me in with some random crazy dude. I had one roommate with OCD—"

"Wait a minute. I think a little company can be healthy." Peter paused. "I'm not sure I should be alone right now myself."

"You want me to move in with you?" Terence finally grasped his meaning. "I thought you were still with Elizabeth."

"No," Peter said firmly. "I've been at June's for the time being. It took me far too long to see it's a hideous thing to be hiding from professional repercussions from being with Neal by staying with Elizabeth. There's room for two in that apartment while we both figure out next steps."

"Anything changed for you since you moved out?" Terence asked after they discussed a few practical matters like his follow-up care and access to the trust fund.

"I changed my mailing address, including the FBI listing, so a few people have expressed surprise that 'the perfect couple' would be separating. But no. It's only been a week, and so far no more problems. I figure they're waiting to see how badly I screw up the psych eval."

"Interesting." Terence laughed. "You know, talking about a mysterious 'they' coming after you is not a good thing to do during the examination. But you do realize the pressure you're experiencing is all about resolving the contradictions you already know you have." He ticked off on his fingers. "Do you let your emotions color your professional judgment? What is the nature of your relationship with Neal? Are you an imposter of an FBI agent? What do you owe Elizabeth?"

Peter started in his seat. "I didn't look at it like that."

"I bet it would stop if you quit," Terence said gently.

"Hughes owns me at this point, Terence. My pension, my reputation, all subject to the spin he puts on me. And he told me I can't leave. Not while this group is focusing on me. That's another thing. There's surveillance all over the apartment, on my phone."

"You're the bait."

"Basically. I'd rather they come after me than Neal."

"I have an idea about that," Terence said. "If your 'they' think your life has unresolved contradictions, find a way to reduce a few."

Neal's portfolio started weighing on him after half a block, so he decided to cab it to his art studio rather than take the subway. It was his first time going out for any art-related reason since he got sick, and not only his strength but his interest in life were still sapped by the mono.

Nevertheless, Pierre had insisted that he go to the drawing group at the collective where he had privileges to drop in any time he liked. "You need to get out, mon ami, spend some time con la bella, something beautiful in life." His old friend had gotten a crafty look on his face. "Bien sûr, you could have the same experience while spending another night in. I, myself, have modeled before. You don't believe me?"

Neal had hastily wiped away the expression of horror from his face. To him, Pierre and his beautiful suits were all of a piece.

He was a little early, and entertained himself by working on a sketch that he especially liked of a woman with strong curves from his last session. Neal heard this week's attendees begin to file in, and he answered a few friendly inquiries about his long absence after becoming a regular.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw this week's model come in, wearing the customary white robe. Stripping off in front of the class was considered too titillating.

He broke his charcoal in half.

Robe or no, Neal found the model very titillating. As if he did it every day, Peter shed the robe and followed the instructor's directions as she posed him on a dais in the middle of the circle of easels.

The several raised eyebrows from those with the frontal view made him really smile for the first time since he got sick. Neal had a profile and felt very lucky to be seeing Peter at all, not to mention so close and complete. Usually he had some kind of vision in mind, and he was always neat, but on this night, Neal felt the very act of drawing to be linking him to the much-missed flesh in front of him. He used both hands, and his fingers were soon tipped with black.

He was so focused on bringing the man he loved to the canvas in front of him that Neal was startled when the teacher clapped her hands and the model was told to give a half-turn so everyone could have a chance at practicing on his entire anatomy.

For a moment, Peter's eyes lingered on his, and Neal admired his self-control, because if he were told to disrobe at the moment he would not make for a sight for polite company. Peter's eyes burned into his for a moment while he was being arranged by the instructor, and then his face became utterly at peace once more. Calm, in only his skin.

The combination of sharing the sight of his lover with strangers, and having Peter behave as a stranger around him, was unbearably erotic and Neal let it flow into his work without shame.

The his-but-not-his situation that had caused Neal so much pain since he had decided to let Peter into his life—it rushed through his hands. For this moment only, the brief inches separating them were a princely ambivalence.

The teacher clapped her hands again, and as was the custom at the end of class, the students circulated around, looking at each other's work.

Neal registered the slightest brush of Peter's eyes on him like a shot.

"That is extraordinary work, Neal. Your best so far. You finally stopped thinking!" the teacher was saying to him.

He turned to face her, hoping he wasn't too flushed. "You know, Marguerite, that is one of the best compliments I've gotten in awhile."

"Would you allow me to hang it?" She gestured to the row of exemplary sketches culled from the students' work.

He tried not to smile too wide. "This one's a keeper, and I don't want to share. Thank you, though."

Peter had wrapped himself in the robe once more and was pretending to look at the drawings of his body, waiting for a chance to tell him "Meet me in the changing room when you're packed up."

Neal had to force himself to take care with the sketch, and when it was stowed away and he'd hurriedly wiped off his hands using the box of sanitary wipes on a table, he pushed open the door to the changing room, the flimsy lock giving way under his touch.

Peter was in the robe, counting the assortment of bills that were his payment out of the per-class fees some students paid. "Not a bad way to earn money," he smirked.

Neal launched himself at his lover. "I've wanted to do this since the second I saw you," he said, kissing all over Peter's face. "How did you manage to stay so composed?"

Peter held Neal loosely in his arms. "It's an old FBI trick," he said sheepishly. "Benadryl. It's a way to keep from being distracted if you're undercover with someone—distracting."

Neal frowned.

"But you, I can tell, have not had any Benadryl this evening," Peter whispered, divesting Neal of the pertinent coverings on his way down to the floor.

"We have twenty, twenty-five minutes until the next model will get here," Neal gasped. And then he gave his body over to the wordless colloquy with Peter.

"Run away with me," he breathed, his hands in the other man's hair. And then he thought no more for several perfect seconds.

Peter caught his weight and folded Neal into one of the chairs. "I feel like I've graduated from intermediate to advanced."

"What?" his lover asked vaguely while turning Peter's face this way and that.

"It was good enough to make you ask me to run away with you. That's a first."

"I missed you so much, Peter, that just being near you makes me want to lose control." Neal registered the frown his words caused. "But yes, that was something else. I'll get you a diploma, if you want to mark the occasion." His face turned serious. "But I wasn't joking."

The words came out in a rush. "With all this money, I can finally get what used to take busting my ass—freedom. All we have to do is go someplace with no extradition, and then grow old enough together that people stop looking for us." He stopped. "You're not arguing back. Wait, Peter, you're not arguing back."

The FBI agent sat there, naked in a small public room, and it didn't feel that unfamiliar. His sense of control, of normalcy, had been shed bit by bit, until the point where he stood without pretense before life. "It's a possibility, but I'd have to be convinced that you would run no risk of having your sentence activated."

To cover his surprise, Neal said, "This is a milestone for me, too. You've never told me any of your 'FBI secrets' before."

"I'm sure I have." Neal shook his head. "Consider this a new era for us. Everything we both know, all of our resources from this point forward goes to finding a more livable scenario for us both."

Naked as he was, he extended his hand, and Neal shook it solemnly.

"In that case, Peter, we have to continue being discreet. As soon as it becomes generally known at the FBI that I'm in love, they'll watch every move I make." The other man stared at him blankly. "They'll assume I'm going to run."

"Why?" Peter was studying Neal's aspect. His hair was longer, his clothes spattered with paint. He looked—homey—compared to the pinstripe suits he usually wore.

"Wouldn't you? 'Neal Caffrey in love has a strong statistical correlation with irrational behavior.'" He slung his arm around Peter. "Love affects me that way. It's like the mistral, the wind that blows in France and makes everyone a little crazy. How I'd love to experience that wind with you in France."

Peter's lip curled. "I think I've been experiencing it for some time. When I'm with you it's bracing, exciting, and when I'm alone—it seems to mix everything up like a tornado. Why shouldn't I let it pick me up, too, and set me down somewhere else?"

"You really don't think you have much to lose?" Neal took his hand. "Nothing else has happened to you since I saw you in the hospital two weeks ago?"

"The psych eval is tomorrow. And in preparation for that, files are being moved around the office, always just out of my sight. Terence moved in, did you get that from my picture message?"

"Yes I—" Neal threw the bathrobe over Peter. "Sorry, we'll get out of your way," he said with his best smile to the young woman frozen in the doorway. Peter scrambled into his clothes and they walked out of the room with a casual gait.

"You'll hear from me," Neal said as they parted ways.

He liked the double sketch of two angles of Peter so well that he decided to split it in two and get them framed as a diptych. Only someone who was looking for it would see that the broad, primitive strokes made up Peter Burke, Neal told himself. He went to a framer he knew specialized in odd sizes, and dropped off the two side views of Peter as well as another sketch. Hanging the two pictures in his bedroom would make him feel less lonely, and he could hide them if by some odd chance the FBI had to come in.

The staff psychologist looked up when Peter arrived for his appointment.

"Hello, it's good to finally meet you. I'm Dr. Ingram," the pale woman with pale blond hair said, shaking his hand.

"'Finally' makes it sound like you've been watching me for some time," he joked, and then the incisive look he received made him remember one of Terence's rules for dealing with shrinks: you never joke with anyone with the word 'psych' in their title.

The lack of a lie detector was encouraging: he could tell this woman anything and it was her word against his, he cheered himself.

The first few minutes were taken up with easy questions—job stress, job satisfaction. Sleep. Diet. His questioner seemed interested, almost nice.

"You're having trouble with your marriage, I hear," she said suddenly. "An emotional situation like that—is it impacting on your work performance?"

"Uh, well," he assembled his thoughts quickly, "I've always been kind of a workaholic. That's put a strain on my marriage over the years, but not vice versa."

"You tend to get most of your satisfaction on the job, then, rather than at home."

The double entendre had to be intentional. "You solve a case, you have a sense of accomplishment. Life doesn't tie up so easily."

Dr. Ingram flipped through the file in front of her. "From what I see here, you have a reputation for preferring a challenge to what's easy. Several cases others were stuck on, you closed."

Peter wouldn't be made to say it.

"Though you did have the advantage of a very talented CI with whom you had a very good relationship," she finally spelled out.

"I respect Neal. Respect tends to boost cooperation, and thus productivity. You'll find that in the FBI personnel book; I didn't come up with it on my own," Peter said mildly.

"And since Caffrey left, how's your satisfaction level?"

With all his might he was picturing his therapist in one of the other chairs to help him remain impassive before the doctor's baiting.

"The Scott case took its toll on me. That's what this is really about, isn't it? I've never used excessive force on a suspect."

"I'm not saying you did," the doctor said in a tone that implied he was being paranoid. "You are right. This is a long-overdue check-in to see whether you're having any residual effects from the two involuntary drug exposures. Nightmares? Flashbacks? Sensory alterations?"

The doctor pulled out a sheet and asked him more questions along those lines about specific symptoms related to drugs or trauma.

With Terence's help, Peter answered with a few mild affirmatives to make it look like he wasn't in denial, but was actually handling it well himself.

"How does it feel, these incidents you've had?" she looked down at a paper, "repeatedly being stopped by the police, money disappearing and reappearing without warning in your bank account. Other inconveniences… Do you worry that what happened to your CI will happen to you? You've already been deliberately exposed to an illness, like he was, so you say."

"So I say?" he repeated before he remembered another rule from Terence: don't let them see they've pissed you off.

"Oh pardon, I see that another agent saw you kissing the woman in question."

Peter felt his hostile look being drunk in greedily by the psychologist, or maybe he was just paranoid.

"What did you think I was referring to?" she asked innocently.

"I thought you were prying into my marital problems, and trying to trace them to that kiss," he parried. "I also respect my wife, and would prefer not to talk about our intimate issues with the FBI's partisan representative."

Ingram looked over her glasses. "If I am on a side, it's yours, Agent Burke. A favorable account of this conversation can resolve many things for you." She sighed. "All of you agents are still living in the Dark Ages. I see the way every one of you skirts this wing like it's infected with the plague." She looked down at her notes once more. "I see that Hughes' new favorite profiler is an acquaintance of yours, and he has psychiatric issues. You're more educated than most, Agent Burke. Why treat me like the enemy?"

Peter chuckled. "You hear stories, is all, of people getting a black mark on their record and it preventing promotions, or making them ride a desk."

Ingram smiled. "Answer one more question, for your own sake, and we'll be done with it."

"Okay, shoot."

"Why were you so concerned about the possibility that Neal Caffrey might be gay?'

Peter stepped on the tack in his shoe with such force he was sure it went all the way in his foot.

"Pardon?"

"You did some extended database searches months ago, and even incited two agents to work overtime with you, and one of them said that you were concerned, among other things, that Caffrey might be in a homosexual relationship with Prentiss Scott. Isn't that so?"

"I was concerned that Neal was involved in any fashion with a man my instincts told me was a sociopath. I believe the evidence bears my instincts out on that." Peter smiled pleasantly. "And I believe I have a right to know why someone is pulling my computer activity from months ago and making the wrong inferences from it."

Dr. Ingram looked confused. "I thought you knew. The complaint against you is being lodged by a Mr.—Aberdeen. Who is openly gay. I'm merely trying to anticipate some sort of bias angle to the excessive force charge."

"Thank you," Peter said as politely as he could.

"And then there's Scott himself. You thought there was something amiss with him long before there was any evidence for it. Are you sure it wasn't because you were immediately prejudiced against him because of his sexual orientation as well?"

Peter laughed. "I'm quite sure."

"What's so funny?" she asked about the smile he was trying to wipe form his face.

"I was best man for Diana at her wedding. She's already asked me to be a godparent if she and Suzette start a family. I was way ahead of the curve, Doctor, when it came to accepting LGBT people at the bureau."

"You were, I see that, you certainly were, Agent." She leaned forward. "How much do you allow your instincts to govern your behavior at work?"

"We've all got our quirks, doctor. Hughes gets a tingling in his nose when we're on the right track."

"Of course. I simply want to know, what would you do if, say, your instincts told you to do something that was expressly against regulations. Would you follow your instincts?"

Mentally, Peter was already clearing his afternoon so he could spend it at the doctor's getting the tack pried out of his foot.

"Obviously, I must have something else going on in my head. If I were just a mass of instincts with no—what do you call it—superego telling me not to do things, I wouldn't be able to drive in New York City traffic."

She laughed "I don't dispute that a little repression is necessary to drive here. So it sounds like you have your instincts governed very well."

"I think so, yes."

"You do admit the instinct is there, then." His heart sank. "To do something against regulations. But you govern it."

"Have it your way," he said, throwing up his hands. "We both know you're going to write some distortion of me in that report, Doctor. But I think all my years of service will help counteract your assertion that my homophobia is barely in check."

The psychologist put down her pen. "And I think we both know that that's not what's at stake."

Peter was not about to let his most intimate and beautiful secret go through this woman's psychobabble-wringer. He bit the inside of his mouth.

"Did you kiss that woman in a public gathering as a way of throwing off suspicion that you had contracted mononucleosis from Neal Caffrey?"

"No I did not," he said firmly.

"You believe you are objective enough to stay on the team handling his undercover operation?"

"Yes, I do."

The psychologist changed tone. "You understand that your sexual orientation is not under fire, here, Agent Burke? This is about fitness for duty. Judgment, Ethics, That sort of thing. The FBI embraces diversity."

"What a relief," Peter replied. "I feel thoroughly embraced."

"I think I have all I need for my report." Dr. Ingram said brightly. "Don't worry about your case review on my account. You don't sound likely to use excessive force on this man."

"If they're hounding you like that, that means they don't have proof," Terence told him later. "Keep on doing what you're doing until you can figure out how to stop."

And that's what Peter did. They had quite a few names Neal had helped them figure out from his coded gaming network exchanges. And their team was overloaded now, trying to catch one of those eccentric rich people in a prosecutable offense. Or at least figure out why they spent their free time figuring out how to subtly undermine people's sense of security.

A week later, Neal went to pick up his pictures from the framer. "But there's only one! I dropped off three." He withdrew the receipt from his wallet. "See?"

"Let me check in the back."

Neal spent over a half an hour arguing with the store clerk and then the store manager. They even called the man who took his order at home. He did remember three pictures, but somehow two had been misplaced.

"How much were they worth; maybe we can work something out?" the manager asked nervously, no doubt seeing Neal's emotion.

"I can't put a number on it," he said quietly.

He left with a framed picture of an anonymous female model under his arm, and stopped to catch his breath when he was outside. This was Neal's first mishap for over a month, since the mono infection.

He didn't want to feel like he was being watched again.

And he didn't want to think what was going to happen to those sketches.

Peter was nearly knocked over on his way out of the FBI that evening.

"Por dios, watch where you're going," the large man snapped at Peter.

Engaged in a vivid daydream of running off to Argentina with Neal, Peter mumbled something and went on his way.

A block down the street he had the sudden panic that his wallet had been stolen, but when he turned out his pockets, he found a note.

"Please pardon the rude introduction. I am Pierre Edgecombe, and our mutual friend sends his regrets. Some rather valuable artwork has been stolen—you saw the likenesses yourself recently, and would no doubt find them very—recognizable-should you see them again. Which could very well happen when you least expect it.

Condolences,

Pierre"

"I said I wanted our coming out to be spectacular," was the pictorial message waiting for Peter that night.


	22. Chapter 22

"You did what?" Terence was working at his new community garden plot, to be designated as an FBI wellness project. "The last time you drew a line in the sand, someone you care about almost died."

"You said yourself that I should go to some public place where I could close the public gap between me and Neal," Peter reminded his friend while he helped sift carefully through the soil for trash, needles and other detritus.

Terence put down his shovel. "I meant you should slowly begin coming out, cross paths with Neal, maybe sit in on a class to take the wind out of the blackmailer's sails. Not get naked in public, with a dozen drawings to prove it!"

Peter wasn't sure why his friend was so annoyed. "Pierre has a sense of humor, and—"

"No, man, you don't get to put this off on someone else like you like to do. You made an impulsive decision, and now somebody can take an ad out in the New York Times with the proof of you having been willingly naked in front of Neal. You ready for that?"

The FBI man sighed. "The only reason I agreed to do it was because it's a beginner class. Housewives and retirees. If you looked at the portraits they drew of me, you would have no idea who they were trying to draw, so it wouldn't be useful for a lineup. And Neal goes to that class specifically because he only uses his left hand to develop—I don't fully understand it. Some new style."

"Caffrey can create bonds that people accept as currency. He could draw you with his feet and it would still look like you."

"He doesn't sign his personal work, so it would take an expert in his evolving left-handed style to know Neal drew it. Otherwise he wouldn't have dropped it off at any old framing shop."

Peter squatted down next to Terence. "The last time I baited Scott, maybe it wasn't the greatest idea, or maybe it was. But we've established that the butler is the one with the willingness to send Neal to the hospital and begin to undermine my professional reputation, so the two events were unrelated. Sometimes you have to go from defense to offense."

The gardener grunted. "In my experience, slow and steady is better than fast and stupid."

"You know I respect all of your wisdom about living life, Terence. I'm the one who didn't know I was in love with my CI for two years, couldn't decide what to do about that or my marriage. Basically, I'm like your average man—totally clueless and indecisive except in one area: my job. You and Mozzie seem to think I'm this very careful bean-counter and that's why I'm a good agent. But this work needs moments of inspiration and daring when you get to my level.

"If more of my cases come up for review, the chances of some minor error coming to light are very good. If my work or my judgment start to be questioned, it's not outside the realm of possibility that every case I closed can be reopened. Not only my work, but dozens of others' efforts undone. If I have to go down, it won't be by death of a thousand cuts. They need to get to the point, whoever they are."

Terence gave him a doubtful look. "Don't come crying to me when you don't like the point. Or only during office hours."

"Team Caffrey has made its first major win," Jones said, opening the meeting that Wednesday morning with a smile. "Though it's above my pay grade to know exactly where that three-quarters of a mil he bagged is going," he glanced at Hughes, "one money launderer has been effectively shut out of the business. Which, as we know, in the world of drug money is a drop in the bucket."

"But the amount of chatter Neal has generated in the network has been huge," Littleton interrupted.

Agent Brower agreed. "We have ten more names to add to our chart," she nodded at the growing web of high-profile names on the white board at the front of the room.

"Our profiler's hunch from awhile back is looking like it was right on target," Peter said with some pride on behalf of his friend. "Scott was an outlier—a real loon. If anything, the names we've looked into so far are known for their somewhat rigid ideas of moral rectitude. Or, in the case of members like Marina DiGioia, a significant personal tragedy for which she had no legal recourse."

"A handsome young man befriended DiGioia's eighteen-year-old daughter, introducing her to hard drugs, which he procured at a significant markup. Scumbag pockets the profits, takes her for as much money and jewels as he can get his hands on, said daughter winds up an addict and ODs," Hughes repeated what it took them a little time to hone in on as the top executive's motivation. "Rightly or wrongly, the mother saw her daughter's addiction and death as being part of a deliberate crime pattern where the police only saw a spoiled rich girl who made bad choices."

"And a certain charming corrupter of rich society girls found himself persona non grata at every wealthy home in the tri-state area, shut out by the servants, who found creative ways to make his life miserable," Diana finished, fresh back from her honeymoon. "And a vigilante was born."

Jones got that furrow in his brow that always worried Peter these days. "If these are vigilantes, why go after Peter?" he asked once again. "They must know he and Caffrey are close."

"The butler's still in the wind," Peter said calmly. "I think, Terence thinks, that he either had a promise to Scott to finish up some business with me, or he's motivated for reasons unknown to make my life difficult."

"How many times have you had to change your phone number now?" Suarez asked. "Whoever is making sure it keeps getting printed in the back of the Village Voice is a little on the immature side, if you ask me."

The first few times Peter received a call from someone seeking a male escort from the infamous 'adult' section of the city paper, he hadn't found it amusing.

Now he merely shrugged. "There are different ways to play this 'game,' as Neal has proved. He always said that the best cons are accomplished by enlisting the help of the target. Caffrey always worked using the carrot rather than the stick. It was a brilliant idea to have us arrange for someone to give the money launderer a community award, which he accepted out of vanity, and to promote his image as an upstanding citizen."

"And printed in the newspaper article covering the event was a mention that he had been instrumental in a vaguely alluded to bust of one of Neal's cronies," Singh continued. "Criminals rely on trust, and suddenly all the people this man relied upon for discretion started re-examining their relationship with him. Pretty smart to have the blurb appear next to a picture of the guy shaking hands with the mayor of Miami—he couldn't very well deny it was him accepting the plaque."

Diana changed gears. "Maybe I missed something. Are we saying the whole operation-Caffrey helps us catch some members of the group in an infraction-is a bust because they're all reasonable people?"

Hughes took off his glasses and looked around the room. "I never said that. We merely have a good idea of what floats their collective boat. The desire for justice is a heady drug. It's what ups the body count in Shakespeare. 'The shining comet of revenge'? Anyone?" He looked around the room of blank faces. "This butler may well have an insider still in the group." There were groans. "I know, he's invisible, but now that Caffrey's had a win in the game, maybe it will draw him out. Dismissed."

The FBI supervisor took his note pad back to his office. The other agents pretty much governed themselves on the day to day. He got on the computer and spent some more time following his vague ideas and scribbling more notes for his lunch with the profiler. Amazing how a man with no previous experience in law enforcement adapted himself to the protocols of using code names and such so that public meetings weren't a risk.

He tore off the yellow sheet and stuck it in his pocket. "It's Monday working lunch for me; don't expect me back before two," Hughes said to his secretary on his way out.

Outside there was some damn protest, or maybe it was a movie with a protest scene, you couldn't tell what level of meta you were living on in New York these days. Hughes maneuvered himself through a group of gawking tourists or extras and breathed a sigh of relief when he could walk freely on the sidewalk.

"Hi boss," Terence looked up from the table at one of their preferred diners. "Coffee?"

Hughes sat down and reached in his pocket for the notes.

"What's the matter?"

"Somebody picked my pocket." Hughes started to laugh. "They got my notes!" Upon reflection, the yellow sheet might have been peeping up out of the top of his pocket.

"Nobody can read your multiple levels of paranoid code," Terence snorted.

"This time it was complete sentences, very carefully copied because my ability to remember iambic pentameter isn't anywhere near my memory for numbers. There's one I do remember: 'The villainy you teach me,' something something, 'I will better the instruction.'" Hughes took a reverent sip of coffee. "We'll see if one or another of our vigilante groups feels alluded to by a few quotes about vengeance from the Bard."

On Wednesday, Peter was already planning on being late because he had to go into his new bank and open a new account in hopes to stop the tampering. Then he was even later because his car was stopped yet again. It was a patrolman who'd stopped him before, and seemed to blame Peter for this routine inconvenience by making due diligence take an extra long time today and being especially rude. He called into the office to warn them he'd be late, but he'd picked the wrong morning to get pulled over.

"It was another APB on my license plate," he began when he joined the meeting in progress.

Diana slid the newspaper over to him. "The gallery that Marina DiGioia has part ownership of had a feature in the arts section of the Times today."

Peter looked at the large photo of some abstract mobile and read a few words of praise about a new collection. "Good for her."

Her finger underlined a short mention in the middle of the article. "Newcomer Neal Caffrey had an especially strong debut with a diptych of simple figure drawings executed with more passion and authority than many other artists would be able to attain if they gave up the pyrotechnics of experimentation for its own sake."

She flipped to the next page.

"Good for Neal," Peter said with an admirable calm after studying the photo of the two sketches and the caption: "Two Sides of Peter, by Neal Caffrey." The style was just as primitive as he remembered it, and his face was the bare minimum of lines. "It doesn't look like his style."

"It's his," Hughes said. "We've already spoken about it."

"And?"

"And he denies ever submitting it to this gallery, and was most emphatic that these sketches had no title or signature. They were pieces from his figure drawing class stolen from a frame shop-" Hughes nodded at Jones.

"Last week," the agent said. "Neal admitted that the security was nonexistent, upon reflection, but since it wasn't a Warhol he was trying to move he didn't think it would be an issue."

"And the gallery woman?" Peter asked, feeling like he was dreaming.

"Neal confronted her himself, rather than involving us," Diana said. "Apparently he really didn't like having what he called a class exercise being plastered in the New York Times with his name on it."

"He's having the artwork sent to us so we can test his theory about how the signature was forged," Suarez said a disarming excitement. "You guys were lucky to work so closely with him—I would never have thought of the way he explained it."

Hughes had the grace to send for Peter fifteen minutes after the meeting adjourned, rather than making it look like he was in trouble. "Do I want to know?" he said tiredly when the doors were closed.

"Are you going to investigate each and every person who's ever sat for Neal? Because I thought he was no longer an object of interest in that way for the FBI."

"He isn't." Hughes looked at Peter steadily.

"Would you like me to take off my clothes to compare?" the agent offered.

He received a withering look.

"If our going theory is correct and there are two vigilante groups, two competing schools of thought at work, then our idea now is that one may be about a more conventional idea of justice—what people do—and the other is more like Scott, in that they target who you are, relationships."

The last word was the only one that had real feeling behind it. Otherwise, Peter was using his new neutral tone that did not betray how much soul-searching it had taken to get to this point.

"Neal changed a lot while he was with us here. One thing he commented on many times was how much work it really took to convict anyone—even people who were real bad apples and deserved to be behind bars. He began to understand that while one person can play the system, it takes an entire system to convict a criminal. It took more patience than he had, as you might remember from his frequent complaints about his enforced staid pace here."

"Get to the point, Burke."

"If it becomes FBI scuttlebutt that the boundaries between me and my CI might have slipped even the slightest, that record-breaking closure rate starts to become suspect. That bureau shrink already raked me over the coals asking me about my judgment, trying to show what happens when one thread starts to unravel from one's professional credibility. Which was something I'd already worked out on my own, sir."

Hughes sniffed.

Peter continued with his carefully worded statement. "It fits in with both Neal's and my values, then, that nothing must come out that will reflect on my judgment, and potentially my cases. But also, our shared values mean that neither of us believes that two consenting adults should be forced to live in fear as if this were the bureau in the Hoover era." Peter risked an FBI history joke. "And I think we all know how much unhappiness that hypocrisy about homosexuality reaped for J. Edgar."

"You're going to spin this that Neal had feelings for you while you were here and you were not receptive? I'd check that out with Caffrey first before presenting it in the meeting tomorrow," Hughes observed drily. Then he started. "Give me your phone."

Peter handed it over and watched his intact call history being examined. "If you get caught compromising this sting operation, I'll have to can you," Hughes said, handing the phone back. "You really didn't know about the article when you walked in, though."

"No. but this approach seems like the best for everyone, and he and I have—communicated—about it. Somehow I became aware of his attraction during the Scott case, it threw me, I moved in and out with Elizabeth a couple of times. Maybe she and I argued about having him on my team. But what is for sure is that I left for good after a realization about unsuspected interests in general."

Peter leaned forward and dropped the circumspection. "I have spent altogether too little time with Neal, sir. Not enough to be called a relationship. At this point, if Neal and I want a relationship, if we fall in love, there's nothing you or anyone can do about our feelings."

"And what would you have me do about this?" Hughes jabbed a finger at the arts section.

"If a human being loves someone enough to want to capture their feelings in a semi-abstract piece of art, I'd say that's the most natural thing in the world. It's a far cry from a sex tape being leaked on the internet, sir."

The old man shuddered. "See that it doesn't come to that."

"I think that" Peter nodded to the paper "is a sign that someone doesn't want Neal and me to be in the closet. I'm working on compromises. "

"Possibly imaginary nudes are somewhat compromising, Burke."

"You must admit sir, that neither Neal nor I has behaved as badly as you would have expected. We're both completing the tasks set before us. You have to see that as a sign that we're serious about building a future together."

Peter sat back, exhausted. It was a speech he'd rehearsed with a somewhat disbelieving Terence when the theft of the pictures came to light, and he wasn't sure his own mental state was as trustworthy as he was laying it out to be.

"A more conservative supervisor would have washed his hands of you long ago, Burke. What if I hated gays? You would be having your pride parade somewhere else."

"That's the idea," Peter thought to himself as he was dismissed.

"I'm so glad we could meet up for a late breakfast," Marina said earlier that morning, turning away from her computer to sit at the coffee table in her office across from Neal. "Bialys! What a treat. How much do I owe you, since you insisted upon bringing the food yourself?"

"Don't worry about it." He bit into a piece of bread. "Consider it a celebration of our making the Times together."

His hostess caught the conflict in his tone. "I am so sorry, Neal, that I never acknowledged your submission to the gallery. I am very busy, and sometimes one of my partners tires of waiting for me to look at new items and approves a bunch of things without me." She smiled. "I've respected our accord and not made our friendship a source of public comment, so they didn't know to single your work out for my attention."

Neal let the word 'friendship' slide because he was too busy working out the larger issue. "I didn't submit anything. I've never submitted anything under my name anywhere, for the simple fact that I don't really have an identity as an artist."

Marina seemed genuinely surprised. "When the Times reporter was in a few days ago, she looked at the new collection, taking her time as they do, and when she asked me who Neal Caffrey was, I couldn't imagine why. She pointed to the card, and I felt terrible for not being aware of your piece. Which betrays quite an artistic identity, I'll have you know." She took a sip of coffee, nodding. "I've had offers, just this morning."

Neal's jaw set.

"Of course we can discuss how the money will work," the woman said soothingly. "Normally the gallery gets a certain percentage."

"The portraits are not for sale." His quiet voice was enough to stop Marina mid-chew.

"They were being framed—rather cheaply, I might add—for my home. They're the first truly successful pieces I've done with my left hand, and they're—personal. Then they were stolen from the framing shop and apparently given a title before they were displayed in your gallery."

The accusation hung there for a moment. The woman put down her bialy. "They were signed. I remember noticing your signature and thinking it must feel odd to you to sign your work with your past."

"I'd like to see that signature."

"If you didn't submit the art, then I hate to consider what that means for the security in my gallery." Her brow knit together. "If someone is making a maneuver on me, I appreciate it even less than you do."

DiGioia canceled an appointment and they headed straight to the gallery.

After some investigation, all that they were able to discover was that there had been a batch of new pieces for consideration, and just like always, the other two partners had gone through to make their picks, placing the approved items in the area for categorizing and hanging.

Neither partner remembered approving Neal's pieces, but they each assumed one of the others had selected it. Since it was of gallery quality, no one objected to seeing it on the wall, where it appeared with a card printed by one of the assistants.

The young man who remembered typing it said that there was a slip of paper with the artist's name and the title of the piece, but he hadn't kept it.

Neal had been examining the signatures. "Do you have a loupe?" he asked one of the workers. "And a pen and a thin piece of paper?"

Someone handed him the articles and he called for Marina. "This is my signature. Watch closely." He signed his name and held it over one of the pictures, which had been signed in a uni-ball type pen something like the one Neal had just used.

"But it's a match," Marina protested.

"There's a hidden tell with my signature. If you compare the overall pressure on my first name with my last, Neal has always been my first name. Well, almost always. But I grew up signing another surname. The Neal part has a deeper indentation on the paper because I'm more used to signing it."

She looked through the magnifying glass and nodded. "Very few people would notice that. But let me see the portrait up close—that was written by a pen. It's not a transfer."

"This was made by a pantograph," Neal declared. "Those wooden contraptions with two pens, one that follows the movement your hand makes."

"But as you say, a signature isn't just the right shapes, it's the fluidity. There's no way someone could trace a signature with that even pressure—too even, in this case, according to you," Marina replied.

"There are modern computerized versions of a pantograph for people who don't know they're no good," Neal told her. "Or have no contacts with anyone who could do a better job."

Marina put down the glass. "You underestimate me, Neal. Perhaps they wouldn't have noticed the difference between your two names, but it's not hard to find a fair-to-middling signature forger." She took a breath. "Let's have some tea in one of the offices."

They settled in two armchairs. "You may not believe me, but this gallery is one of the few things that really means something to me. The fact that someone infiltrated our admittedly loose system here is actually quite a blow in an intimate place, so perhaps I can empathize with you a little."

Her hand reached halfway across the table to Neal's before she checked the gesture. "Of course we know about your feelings for your friend. Scott did say that the air practically crackled between the two of you the first time he saw you together. And that he thought your friend was going to challenge him to a duel, he was so fiercely protective of you. And you, he said, talked about this man constantly. Scott saw what you couldn't see, right from the start." She smiled.

Neal tended not to smile at any mention of Prentiss Scott.

"There are people in this world, Neal, I know you've met them. Paparazzi, which is a professional muckraker by a fancy name. People that aren't even of the level of a blackmailer, because their recompense is from rooting through the dirty laundry of the wealthy and public figures, and then exposing what they find. There's a gossip industry these days. It's a certain mindset that I deplore. I would not publish the details of your love life in the paper."

Marina toyed with her teabag. "Something that is rather frustrating for someone like me is that someone like you doesn't believe me capable of suffering because our backgrounds are so different. But I have. I know loss. You may find now, Neal, that having money doesn't prevent misfortune from reaching its long finger into your life. I know what it is like to have my name in the papers for the wrong reasons, and I know what it is like to lose someone in a terrible, senseless way."

Neal's antennae registered only sorrow, though he looked hard for something else.

"So I am not alone in saying that I hope you are able to work things out with him someday, after an admittedly complicated beginning, after being gravely ill, and having to rearrange two lives around what was probably a very unexpected attraction."

He did smile at that, and the woman smiled back.

"How much do you know about Tomas Maria Mendonça?" Neal said suddenly.

"I don't know where he is. He doesn't have the means to wager in our group, and no one would have let him stay on his own account, not after the strong likelihood that you were infected with that awful disease on purpose."

"You think so?" Neal often wondered on that point.

"If it was an accidental infection, someone else would have been accidentally infected. Don't you agree?" She finished the rest of her tea.

"But what is he like? What makes him tick?" Neal asked, standing up.

"I don't know. But rest assured, Neal, this provocation will not go unremarked." She looked at the portraits in his hands. "Very nice. Any time you want to submit something, call me so I know it's really coming from you."

For the rest of the day, Peter very good-naturedly put up with ribbing from around the office. The newspaper reproduction of an abstract print was too many steps removed from a photograph for people to treat it as real proof or see much more than a generic male shape, though it became an office Rorschach that was passed around until some people swore it was the shape of his head. Nevertheless, he caught a couple of women giving him calculating glances that he was sure he'd never received before. Not to mention the look from a man from whom he would never in a million years have expected it.

Then Peter received a call from the front desk. "You said to hold any delivery that came for you," the guard said.

The FBI agent stifled a groan. What fresh hell had been cooked up for him and sent straight to the FBI, of all places?

He came back a few minutes later with a flower arrangement. "You sure those aren't poisonous flowers?" Jones asked, poking his pen at the expensive arrangement of blue hyacinths and blue irises. "What does the card say? Some cryptic taunt to make you lose your mind?"

Peter's reflexes were deliberately slow when Jones grabbed the card. "I didn't intend for it to be like this, but you know I am one for making a big statement…. I hope this one ended up getting through loud and clear. Neal Caffrey."

His good friend's face went through several changes before Peter's eyes: surprise warred with disbelief, with an undercurrent of betrayal that he might have been left out of something so big. Disbelief won out. "Is this real?" he tilted the card this way and that.

'No idea," Peter said placidly. "But my favorite color is blue."

As no doubt his lover had intended, Jones took the card and marched over to where his two portraits had been delivered by a trusted underworld messenger to the FBI's forgery unit.

After some time, Peter looked up from his paperwork to see Jones, card in hand, being let into Hughes' office.

The agent exited a while later, his face a bit worse for wear after months of rationalizations had just given way under Jones' feet.

Fatefully, Diana had left early, so Peter and Hughes both watched Jones circling around, looking for someone to talk to. He settled on Suarez, who happened to be walking by. Through the various layers of glass, the FBI supervisor and Peter watched a wildfire of gossip be ignited around the office. They exchanged a look of relief. This was overdue.

Jones certainly thought so as he cornered Peter who was putting on his jacket at the end of the day.

"Did the signature have Neal's tell?" Peter asked.

"Yes it did." Jones was evidently searching for the right words and then gave up.

The pictorial message Peter composed for Neal that night said, "Out would be better with you in it."


	23. Chapter 23

Peter strode across the restaurant to the table where Neal was sitting. As he sat down they touched hands briefly.

"I hate seeing you this way," he said.

"It's invasive and unconscionable, is what it is," Neal agreed. "If I find out they snuck in audio surveillance I'll sue the FBI for breach of contract."

"Is it wrong that I find your new rich bastard persona very attractive?" Peter asked, moving his leg to touch Neal's under the table.

Several layers of tension fell away from Neal's face at the private contact, and that made Peter smile with the happiness that he could cause that transformation, and then they were grinning stupidly at one another.

"The A/V crew is going to have such a good time with this video, so we might as well have a good time making it," Peter coaxed. "What are you ordering for me?"

"The ceviche here is excellent, and I thought we'd try the chicken with passion fruit sauce, which I've heard is amazing—"

Peter was pleased to let Neal do his foodie thing, and thus forget that the restaurant had been painstakingly set up with small wireless cameras that not even the staff knew about, in hopes of catching someone in the act of being the eyes and ears of Tomas Mendonça at the first official date between Neal and Peter.

"How do they look? You hung them up?" Peter asked after being fed a mouthful of unpronounceable deliciousness from Neal's plate.

"Yes. Marina has had quite a few offers on the portraits by now. I never thought anyone would be interested in my own work."

"People at the bureau think of you as this cocky guy, but you have your share of self-doubt," Peter said fondly, brushing the other man's hand as he reached for a piece of mango from Neal's plate.

"Are you holding back on how terrible it's been for you at the FBI now that they know some version of the truth?"

"No, it just makes me miss you being there because we can't share the awkwardness. I could swear Hughes sent out a memo telling people that anyone caught leaving anything rainbow-colored on my desk will be summarily fired."

Neal frowned.

"Someone got the idea of slipping rainbow-colored pens and pencils in my desk caddy and it eventually overflowed. These are shows of support while not asking invasive questions, Neal. It's not teasing. I've had people stop me in the hall who you wouldn't imagine, telling me personal stories I would never repeat. People like us."

Neal clinked wine glasses with him and then said with quiet force, "I hope you know, I'm not doing this again, Peter. There is no way we're going to be someone's experiment. My feelings are worth more than some poor quality video feed." He gestured around vaguely. "If I didn't think it would put my health in serious danger, I would arrange to be 'accidentally' exposed to a toxin or a drug, and then I'd be out of this agreement."

Peter looked shocked. "You promised not to take any serious steps about other options without telling me," he objected. "If you got sent back to prison, we wouldn't even qualify for conjugal visits."

"If they kept me in New York State, we would," Neal said mischievously, referring to the new marriage law. He laughed so loud the people at the next tables turned towards them. "The look on your face! The bureau folks will have a good time filling in the blanks for those few seconds."

"Does this mean that you refuse to have anything to do with me until we've left the FBI behind?" Peter asked worriedly.

"I never said that," Neal corrected him with an inviting look Peter was coming to know well. "You know what I keep thinking about? I want to sit at my kitchen table with you and eat takeout Chinese. Something really basic that couples do."

He leaned across the table excitedly. "We can pretend we're living in a typical New York flat with drafts and a hot spot near the radiator that makes you sweat, and so one of us will be too hot and the other too cold. I want to argue with you about the heat and complain about the landlord. There's a lot to New York I haven't experienced because I haven't been in a relationship," he finished wistfully and then saw Peter's dubious expression. "I've had affairs, but not someone to have a home with."

His companion was always deeply affected when Neal used the sacred word "home." Rather than saying the wrong thing he made light of the moment. "We do a lot of things that couples do, when we get a chance," Peter observed, looking at Neal until he elicited the blush he was so fond of.

"There's a catch," Neal said. "If you come home with me you'd have to be examined thoroughly for any bugs you might have picked up. That scanner is state of the art, but it's not foolproof."

Peter savored one more moment of sitting at the table in the blue radius cast by those eyes, and then looked at his watch. "We've stayed as long as they asked us to. If someone in our environment was observing us, maybe they'll be able to pick it out from the recording."

"Where are the cameras, Peter?" Neal asked as he paid for the meal.

"Your two o'clock, five o'clock and nine o'clock. Why?"

As they got up, Neal quite naturally gave Peter a quick but significant kiss so that two o'clock would be sure to see it. "Because I want it to be very clear that if you've been playing hard-to-get all this time, I finally won you over. Completely."

"This is supposed to be our first date," Peter protested as they walked out. "They're going to think I'm easy."

Neal hailed them a cab and then whispered in his lover's ear, "You've always been extremely amenable, in my experience. Eager, even."

True to his word, Neal used his bug scanner upon arrival and then gave a very careful inspection to every inch of his guest.

Afterwards they rested in a tangle of sheets. "You're in my bed—I thought that might take a lot longer," Neal said, tracing his hand over his partner's abdomen. "Though last time was very nice."

Peter was gazing at the portraits on the wall. "Do the pictures really look like me? People at work said it was something in my posture, or the shape of my head."

"Every picture has an inside. These feel like you. It's much less lonely here with them to look at from my bed."

Peter looked around at the expensive condo that was barely lived in. "The kitchen looks barely used. You're not happy here."

"I've allowed myself to be pushed around more since I stopped being a CI than ever in my life. It's a great apartment, but someone made me move. You know I hate to be told what to do."

Peter felt around in his clothes and had one of Neal's hands cuffed to the bed frame in a flash. "You'll never be as fast as I am with these things," he smirked, "And you don't mind being pushed around from time to time. Where are they?"

"Where are what?" Neal asked innocently.

"The ones you always kept in your apartment. Unless you want me to toss your place until I find them. And it's 'Agent.'"

"The back of the second drawer, Agent."

In the early morning hours that Saturday, Neal made fresh-squeezed juice for Peter and they sat at his kitchen table admiring the view of the Empire State and the Chrysler.

"God, that's good," Peter said of his drink. He munched on a fresh strawberry.

"Pierre's idea. He keeps my juicer supplied, and Mozzie has me seeing some Chinese herbalist who operates out of the back of a restaurant in Chinatown. Hence the swampwater tea first thing every morning. Good for the kidneys, not the nose."

"You and Moz have made up?"

"We were never in a fight, he was just uncomfortable with hurting Elizabeth." Neal alternately sipped the foul-smelling Chinese tea and the juice.

"I'm still uncomfortable with it, but if three people who care about each other could ever make something sustainable for the three of us, that time is not now." Peter took one of the stray pomegranate kernels from their plate and ran it across Neal's lips before he kissed the scarlet off. "I only have the attention for you."

"She's actually very relieved." He laughed at Peter's shocked expression. "Didn't I tell you? She and I talk all the time. Now that she's not married to the FBI, she says she's free to do what she likes. I've had her in my studio."

Peter's juice glass clattered on the table.

"Not had her had her, she's taking an art class, and we compared notes about our work. Elizabeth is a remarkable woman, and one thing she doesn't tolerate is being pitied. I say this for completely unselfish reasons—do you need my lawyers to give some discreet help to your lawyers to move the divorce along? Elizabeth is anxious to be out of limbo."

"Whatever I can do to make this less difficult," Peter sighed. "There are those at the FBI who are obviously Team Elizabeth and think she found out about our torrid affair from the newspaper, though we had clearly separated before then."

"Yes, she got a few calls of solidarity she could have done without," Neal said wryly.

Peter looked out at the Chrysler building, trying to master his ambivalence about the conversations Neal and Elizabeth were having behind his back.

His host reached across to put his lover's hand on his thigh. "It may be uncomfortable for you, but Elizabeth will always be one of my inner circle of friends, I hope. For whatever reason, we're closer now that I've turned her husband's head with my manly charms."

He stretched, shirtless, and grinned. "I suspect it's because we both see one thing happened out of many possibilities. And she didn't come in second at all, though some are treating her so. Elizabeth had worked out an equation for the three of us that was perfectly do-able in some reality. It's higher math, whatever calculations put you here with me right now, just the two of us." Neal moved the hand on his thigh up and down. "Mozzie has her studying with some Buddhist guy."

Peter reached over and pulled Neal onto his lap. "I'm not long for the bureau, Neal. Not that I'm going to be fired, necessarily. But I'm learning to pay closer attention to the signs life is trying to give me," he clasped Neal tightly, "And all signs point to the exit. When they let me go."

"Does leaving the FBI work like the army—you either have an honorable or dishonorable discharge?"

"It does in the sense that a psychological ailment, while bad for you while on duty, can help you when you leave. Terence has been coaching me in how to make a play for having lingering trauma from the Scott case."

He leaned his head against Neal's chest so he didn't have to look him in the eye. "I haven't told you, but Hughes has called me on it a couple of times. All an older, white male authority figure has to do is take a certain tone, or especially start telling me what my feelings are or what to do, and I melt into a puddle of paranoia. Hughes and I have an agreement that I don't look at him in meetings, because he says he can't take the way I glare at him like the devil himself."

Neal drew back to look at Peter. "You always had a sort of jocular, man-to-man relationship before. People used to try to figure out your secret for getting on his good side. You're sure it's not the huge pain in the ass our relationship has caused him?"

"No." Peter reached around for his orange juice to get the bitter taste out of his mouth that came from admitting this thing he couldn't seem to get a handle on. "He's been annoyed with me, for sure, but for some reason since the Scott case I feel like Hughes is this evil mastermind. He may have played me a little, keeping some information from me," Neal grimaced, "from us. But you must admit, neither you nor I was particularly objective at the end of that case. He had to have fresh eyes. I would have done the same, Neal. Or similar."

Peter laughed. "Then there's this police officer who's stopped me twice for one of those bogus APBs on my car. He called in to the bureau after the second one, saying that I acted so freaked out he was sure I was up to something. He was the same type: white, fiftiesh, gray hair, forceful manner, kept telling me I didn't work for the FBI when I knew I did. You see the pattern. I've had to change my dentist for the same reason."

Neal had gone very still. "And Terence thinks this is drug-related?"

"Partially. But Scott was a master of manipulation who caught me when I was malleable-I was worried about you for so long, Neal, my emotions were stretched to the limit." He sighed. "I like to think I wouldn't have moved back in with Elizabeth if I hadn't transferred all my fear of Prentiss Scott onto Hughes. Terence says I got stuck in the 'flight' part of fight or flight, but I still feel terrible that I ran to Elizabeth instead of leaving the bureau when I should have."

Neal moved so that he was straddling Peter with his arms loosely about his neck. "I thought I had it bad with my DTs and still feeling less than 100%." He tried to dissemble his concern. "Maybe you dislike authority more than I do now."

"It's only the people who try to tell me what to think, which doesn't help with our very real persecution. But Terence says that the only time most of us think about how we're put together is when we're falling apart, so I'm trying to look at the occasional panic as a learning experience." He rubbed Neal's back. "He also thinks we can make this work for me to get, if not a golden parachute when I leave, at least not a leaden one."

"And what will you do?" Neal asked in a neutral tone.

"Set up a consulting operation to do kind of what you do—use my expertise to help businesses detect threats to their security, based upon techniques I've helped untangle myself. It'll be like the FBI without the red tape. And no one will be shooting at me, hopefully."

He saw Neal looking doubtful. "It is rare but not unheard of for someone with so many years invested in the bureau to leave before retirement. My experience is valuable. I've made a few discreet inquiries to people who have asked me to leave and come work for them over the years."

"If this is what you want to do, then by all means, do it. It just sounds very time-consuming to set up, and there are things I wanted for us too. You'd be perfectly capable of having a crash course in world business practices from Pierre and we could set up somewhere else, at least part of the time."

"The three of us?" Peter joked.

Neal reflected. "Possibly; it might not be a bad idea for a short while. Pierre has done a lot for me, picking up and relocating when I asked. If we can help each other get on our feet somewhere, it would be a good deal all around."

"You're a very generous person, Neal Caffrey," Peter observed, wrapping his lover more tightly around him. "That's in my profile of you, early on. You have actual friends and tend to maintain those connections, unlike a lot of scoundrels who use people up and move on to the next."

"That doesn't stop me from having ulterior motives." Neal chuckled at Peter's concern and then did something to wipe it away. "In this case, I'll give you anything you ask, so that when you leave here and the FBI security camera outside the door catches you, there will be no doubt at all that you had a very satisfactory debut with me."

Sure enough, when he left Neal's apartment, Peter was sure he was wearing an inane expression, but he didn't care. The grin was sitting like a satisfied cat in the middle of his face, and there was nothing he could do about it. Peter took the elevator down and then treated the concierge and then the doorman to a dose of his happiness. He and Neal were fully out of the closet.

Because it wasn't that cold, Peter decided to walk to Penn Station and avoid the transfer. It was one of those days where the city seemed attuned to his mood. The pedestrians were in on his contentment; the dirt and the trash seemed as though they'd been carefully placed for maximum New York-ness. Pigeons, Peter's brain thought lazily as he began to cross the street. Neal has a pigeon. What was her name?

The bike messenger came out of nowhere. Or that's what it felt like to Peter, who was only focused on his first walk as the man who was openly seeing Neal Caffrey.

Strangely, the first name on his lips when a Good Samaritan roused him from being knocked out cold wasn't Neal.

"Charlene," Peter said. "Charlene."

"Is that your wife? Do you want me to call someone?" the Indian businessman asked while others gathered round. "Don't move, I think you should stay still."

The siren seemed to close in on him from all sides, and when they moved Peter into the ambulance he had a distinctly otherworldly feeling, as if he were in the place where dreams came from.

His FBI badge helped the hospital find someone to call after he'd been diagnosed with a concussion. Later, Peter would be extremely grateful that they called Neal, rather than Elizabeth, who was no doubt still the emergency contact on the forms.

"They say you were airborne, Peter, your legs knocked out from under you," Neal said, taking Peter's hand. "Do I want to know what's under that bandage?"

"A big goose egg, I think," Peter said with a tongue that felt wrongly attached to his mouth. "It's the strangest feeling, like I'm dreaming while awake. Are you really here, Neal? I feel so nauseous I almost hope you aren't."

"I won't leave you. Would you mind telling me why you were saying the name of my pigeon right after you came to?"

"This is a dream," Peter said, beginning to feel uneasy.

"The ambulance people said you were saying the name 'Charlene.' It got the people at the FBI all confused, I'll have you know. They think you're really branching out."

"I'm sorry you have to see me so sick," Peter said a few moments after the nausea made him humiliate himself.

"The idea of infidelity makes you ill—duly noted," Neal said, trying to get a smile out of Peter. "The doctors say you don't remember the bicyclist who knocked you over. Is it coming back at all?"

Peter shook his head and then wished he hadn't. "It was early yet, there weren't a lot of people near Grand Central at that time. That's all I know." He tried a smile. "This is nothing, Neal. Some bruises, a bump on the head. You and I both have taken worse knocks than a bicycle."

"Of course." Neal spent the time by Peter's side telling him amusing stories, and then he brought his lover back to his apartment after a rather ugly telephone exchange with Hughes.

"He's still my agent, and apparently someone isn't happy you spent the night together, Caffrey. Must I let him tempt fate again?"

"Maybe he forgot to update the necessary forms, but I am now the person in Peter's life who cares for him when he is sick, Agent Hughes. He's seeing stars and can hardly walk upright. June is more than competent to care for him if he had to go home, but he does not. And I think he'd rather me see him like this than someone else."

The doorman helped get Peter out of the cab and the concierge got him up to Neal's apartment.

"I'm not hungry," Peter said.

"I am cooking for me as much as for you," Neal said from his still-pristine kitchen. He needed to do something to help him think. But there was really only one thought that was still there after everything had been chopped. He left the soup simmering in the pot and closed the door to his bedroom. "Moz? This is war."

Pierre went out to the storage facility in Queens and went through the complicated security protocol to get in to the correct unit.

"You made it! Thanks for coming to my turf for this meeting," Mozzie said, flipping up the visor on his protective suit. "I have a time-sensitive job."

"Oh, it's been years since I've made a jewel," Pierre said in the usual mix of German and English he employed with Mozzie, stripping down to his undershirt due to the extreme heat.

"You're a craftsman? I had no idea," Mozzie said. "I always took you for strictly financial, the occasional gambling con."

"Mother sent me to school specifically so I could learn a trade, as she called manufacturing gems. Humans will always be captivated by jewels, she said, and thus meeting that eternal demand is always good business, if on the wrong side of the law."

"This endeavor is not strictly illegal," Mozzie said, pulling out the ice chest where he had two bottles of wine chilling. "A society lady is down on her luck, but doesn't want to make it public that she needs to hock her jewels. If she quickly suffers a robbery in which the new jewelry is lost, and then chooses to file an insurance claim anyway, I can't be held responsible."

"Naturally. Ah, you remembered my favorite wine," Pierre crowed.

"Yes, you can have that whole bottle of muscatel. I have a nice vino verde for me." He checked his timer for the chemical process and poured wine for the both of them.

"Neal wanted me to come talk with you because he's not content with our conservative strategy up until now. And I have been having… thoughts."

"Oh?" the small criminal said to the larger one.

"It simply does not make sense. This mysterious butler, who has to be fabulously well-connected in most sectors of New York society—you've never crossed paths with him, Mozzie. And you are also fabulously well-connected."

"With society folks, not so much. This gem commission came my way because there are not too many people who will accept such a job on short notice. But servants of the ultra-rich—can't say I know any. Or any career servants—I've posed as a butler myself on occasion."

"We all have, my friend," Pierre raised his glass. "You say you've never seen him, based on the driver's license photo and passport photo, as well as the security footage from a dozen wine auctions and other such events. But how many of your contacts have you circulated the photo to?"

Mozzie shrugged. "After what happened when Neal went missing, and it turned out that people were too afraid I would put a hit on them to share the information, both Neal and I have been loath to send around a picture of this guy with the understanding that we hate his guts, thereby making everyone clam up. It's a provocation, you have to admit, sending a photo around the underworld looking to flush out someone who has your Nüsse and those of your partner in his grip."

"Perhaps yes, I am sure you are right," Pierre agreed. "How did you develop such a network in New York? The things I've seen you arrange are phenomenal. That balloon chase for the Coach bag made the news."

The little man wiped his brow. "It's really cheating to have Neal's money at my disposal. He and I have done many things together with just the power of connections." He took a sip of wine. "I have my theories about what makes New York City special for crime. At the turn of the century, especially, but really all along, New York has been a collection of villages. Little slivers of the old country, transplanted and nurtured in what little scrap of the city each immigrant group could find. And what was also transplanted was a smaller version of the home country's leadership."

"Like the Mafia." Pierre mopped his own brow with his voluminous handkerchief.

"Yes, but it could have been anything. An influential rabbi at the synagogue that was central to a Polish Jewish community. A Catholic church somewhere else. A little old lady who knew all the traditional folk songs from back home. And by virtue of little cultural signals—language, dress, more subtle things—basically anyone who belonged to this group could hope for at least a little kindness from the head honcho, but also from the villagers, who had benefited from this loose connection themselves."

"Yes, this is the way that things are in Europe, too. What you are talking about reminds me of gypsies. There is no real organization, but they can recognize each other instantly, help each other out with the sense that they are all part of the same phenomenon. And the aristocracy is just a bunch of vagabonds who decided to stay put, Mother always used to say."

"Are you really-?" Mozzie asked curiously.

"Well, yes, technically Mother had the right to use the title baroness, according to certain disputed records. And a few other titles, as well. She was raised in that world, though, so that people 'read' her as nobility. She had all the little signs—knowing the right flowers for a certain occasion, or the correct amount of petticoat to show under a dress. All of these minutiae came in very useful when she used her skills on the vieux riches and the nouveaux riches alike. She played on the nostalgia of the old money clans and represented everything that new money knew it couldn't buy."

"To your mother," Mozzie raised his glass. They toasted and an alarm went off. "Care to see the next stage?'

Once the work was done, they sat down and refilled their glasses with the cold vodka that was still defrosting from having been stored in the freezer. "I don't think I quite followed how your idea of the many villages in New York helps out criminals today," Pierre resumed.

"Oh, well, New York still has this village mentality. It's like it's imbued in the concrete, or something, and everyone gets into it sooner or later. Criminals here have to have some form of civility, because the place is crowded to begin with and it's lousy with thieves. But it's not just the underworld. I have this idea that the city is this big thing that everybody is united in hating. You've heard it. Everyone complains about the rent, the noise, the pollution, the subway, the traffic. The rich complain about the unwashed masses, and vice versa. Which makes people yearn for protection, for a village."

Mozzie could tell he wasn't getting through. "This one time, there was a blizzard. Which to me, seemed like the perfect time to move some very hot items that were also sort of unwieldy, and thus I'd been nervous about loading them in a van in plain sight. I'd procrastinated so long that this buyer gave me a very pointed ultimatum.

"It was a great idea. I loaded everything with nothing but the snow as a witness. But I took too long, and the van wasn't going to budge out of the snowdrift, not loaded down like that.

"The vehicle was illegally parked, which meant as soon as the parking police could dig out, and they're always the first, they would ticket me, if not tow my rented van, setting off a chain of events I didn't even want to think about. Picture me, standing there with buckets of snow pouring down, scratching my head and wishing to god I didn't have to lug everything back up a now icy stairway. When lo and behold, a tow truck comes by.

"Now, there is no sane or legitimate reason why I had to get going into that blizzard. The guy looked at me and knew that. But he asks me, 'You need to get somewhere in a hurry?'

"This was a Latino fellow, but I figured everyone in New York is just a little bit Jewish at heart, so I tell him, 'I'm delivering kosher meals to shut ins who keep to the strictest kashrut. If I don't reach them, they'll be forced to rely on whatever is brought around by the Salvation Army, and thus, choose between violating their religious conscience or going hungry, the poor old souls.'"

"Are you Jewish?" Pierre asked.

"Who knows? But with the back of the van weighted down the way it was, it was unlikely that I was carrying that much matzo ball soup, especially since there wasn't a kosher restaurant for miles. It's snowing so much we can barely see each other and he says, 'Let me see what I can do.'"

"The guy works a miracle and yanks me out, pulls the van to the nearest plowed street, and then he won't even take any money. He only shakes his head and laughs at the absurdity of anyone trying to commit a crime in that weather. He must have figured that my situation was so desperate that he didn't want to add to my troubles.

"'Vaya con dios,' he says to me. 'Mazel tov,' I say back, and we wave goodbye.

"And that, dear Pierre, is the type of connection I've spent the last ten years cultivating. Not just with people I know, but with people I don't know but understand." Mozzie wagged a finger. "There's not enough money in the world to buy the complicity of an entire city's Yellow cab network. But if I explain it in such a way that it will help 'stick it to the man'-whatever that means to someone, and everyone has a 'man' they hate—dispatchers are more than willing to spread the word that a certain rich bastard is persona non grata on one rainy day. It gives them a warm feeling inside. Like New York is still a village."

Even given his tolerance, Mozzie was evidently not able to match cup for cup with someone over a foot taller than him. "All of this is being threatened by the Disneyfication of the city, don't get me started."

"My friend. My friend, it is time to do the next stage," Pierre said gently, pointing to the alarm.

"It all started with Giuliani. I did have fun tormenting him though. City Hall had a persistent bat infestation while he was in office," Mozzie kept on.

The visitor had great fun dusting off his training and complete the rubies Mozzie had started. It would take a good deal more alcohol to make him drunk, and he wasn't in the mood for celebrating.

When his task was complete, the big man saw the small one dozing in a folding chair with sweat pouring down his brow. He thought it an opportune moment to make a phone call.

"Neal? Yes, we've talked. Mozzie had perhaps a bit too much to drink in the name of cooling off in this inferno. He's expressed his opinion, but I'm not convinced that we have any choice but to call on every corner of the underworld where you have a friend, and figure out how this Tomas has been operating all these years."

He pulled out his third and last handkerchief while he listened.

"No, I don't want to start turning over rocks in the drug world, but the man lived in New York for some years, did he not? If he so much as bought the services of a discreet courier, we should be able to find out. And there's a good chance that he's still here. This is a gentleman of a certain age. Imagine someone like that, so meticulous, so connected, uprooting himself."

He held the vodka bottle against his forehead. "I know it's a risk, but you said you wanted to step up the game, and my position has been for some time that there's little we can do without knowing more about this Senhor Tomas Mendonça."

Pierre listened to various ideas from Neal. "My dear friend, I don't want to influence you to do something you don't feel is right. All I'm saying is that there is something wrong with this whole scenario that I feel is staring me in the face but I can't put my finger on it. And as a newcomer, I feel like if anyone would see it, it would be me, who is not worried about someone close to me. How is Peter?"

Neal's old friend smiled at the great affection that lay underneath the worry in the voice coming to his ear. "I'm sure he will be fine. As will Mozzie as soon as I remove him from this sweltering place. Yes, I am almost done. It's nice to know I could still have a career as a counterfeit gem-maker."

Neal had Peter set up watching a movie on his laptop because he'd never bothered to buy a television. Peter had downloaded one of the Batman films, Neal could never keep them straight, and was lost in a tale of a metropolis full of corruption being redeemed by an anonymous savior.

He curled up under the blanket beside his companion. "These movies always bother me because I root for the wrong side," Neal said. "Except they make the criminals look so bumbling, I don't really identify with them either."

"The caped crusader is an antihero, so it's okay to like him," Peter said with less trouble than earlier.

"I suppose you're right. Everybody likes a good underdog, even if he is filthy rich."

"You're filthy rich," Peter pointed out.

"That's beside the point." He looked down at Peter tracing the fading tattoo on his arm with heavy eyelids.

"My billionaire playboy act was a bust." Against his better judgment, Neal let out his frustration. "Everything we've tried so far hasn't worked."

"Maybe we need an antihero," came the sleepy voice. "You'd look better in tights."

Neal watched Peter sleep, the bandage still wound around his head. This was stupid. He'd not been reasoning clearly all this time. Neal Caffrey does not sit around and let someone take shots at him, or the person he cared about. The doctor had confirmed what the passersby had reported—the biker had to have been pedaling full throttle, and hit Peter in such a way to produce maximum damage. What was next—a cab?

He was going to call his lawyers in the morning and start them working on getting out of this agreement with the FBI. Not a thing Neal had done for the bureau had borne fruit, and now he and Peter were in danger. There had to be a way for them to move on grounds that their lives were being threatened.

He tried to curl up next to Peter but couldn't sleep. Once he'd decided something, Neal wanted to act on it. Law offices were annoyingly closed at night. But criminals never sleep. He called down to Pierre. "You're awake? Good. Let's talk underworld strategy."


	24. Chapter 24

The last of the long line of criminals, thieves and scoundrels slipped out of the empty warehouse space in Brooklyn where Mozzie had organized the interviews.

"What did you think? Is anyone lying? No one jumped out at me," Mozzie said, opening the hastily constructed partition behind which Neal and Pierre had been observing behind a two-way mirror.

"I didn't sense anyone lying either, and these are people we know relatively well, Moz," Neal said. "Did our outsider pick up on anything?"

"Only that people really wished they could help," Pierre put in. "Do you feel all right with having given them a photograph to take back to their circles?" he continued as they vacated the premises and headed to a restaurant nearby.

"I wouldn't want to do any more interviews. These were all the people with whom I'm on a face-to-face basis," Mozzie said. "To some people I'm just a name and a reputation, and that's the way I want to keep it."

"Are you sure you want to go here?" Neal asked of the chain restaurant Pierre had chosen for dinner on their way in.

"But of course," the big man said eagerly, surveying the menu and the plastic décor. "I am making a culinary study of American lowbrow eateries. The food tastes like an idea, rather than food, I've come to think."

When they were settled in the booth with their food, Mozzie inquired, "We set up the observation room for Neal, because he's so on edge he would make people nervous. But no one knows you, Pierre, you could have sat out front with me."

"Alas," the European said after a genteel bite of fried chicken. "I would have made people so nervous they wouldn't have said a word. Your criminal friends would have assumed I was the hitman you'd contracted to kill the person who'd been holding out on information about the butler."

"No, I'd have vouched for you," Mozzie protested.

Pierre exchanged a sad smile with Neal. "No, my friend, you do not realize what you have. With a physique like this, it speaks louder than words. I know from experience that no self-respecting criminal will come to a meeting with me without a gun. It's a mess, in other words. My height alone sets me within a small percentage for a lineup. And it does get very tiresome to be constantly looked at with fear, especially when I am as nonviolent as you, dear Mozzie. All I want is the crimes of the mind, but my body has made me suited for infractions of a coarser nature." He took a sorrowful bite.

"The baroness used to call Pierre 'delicacy writ large,'" Neal interjected.

"So that's why you limited yourself to the financial sphere. Nobody cares what you look like as long as you know how to wear a suit," Mozzie said.

"Precisely, and in this age of computers, what I look like matters not at all. Although, the ability to wear a jacket properly is what allows me to slip in as a croupier from time to time. I own a replica of the dinner jackets used at most of the casinos in Europe," Pierre confided as he munched on a French fry.

Mozzie had stopped eating. "I would never have thought of being physically intimidating as a drawback. There have been many times I wished I was scarier."

"It does come in handy," Neal said. "Pierre here can hit someone on the head like this," he brought his fist down like a mallet, "and they're out for the count. He's gotten me out of a jam a couple of times that way."

"When I must, I must. But the grass is always greener, n'est–ce pas? Look at you, Mozzie," he gestured to the small man in front of him. "You're everyman." Mozzie smiled uncertainly. "No really, you can be anywhere and it makes sense. And you have a great sense of solidarity with your fellow man, yes? What I saw in all those interviews was people trying their hardest to come up with some information about this Tomas, because they'd do anything for you. Trust-that is a gift that cannot be bought, my friend, take it from one who knows."

"Excuse me, guys," Neal said, turning back to smile at his two friends comparing notes from the opposite ends of the intimidation spectrum on his way to the bathroom.

"We both agree this semi-biblical series of plagues on both Neal's and Peter's houses is real, correct?" Mozzie asked as soon as Neal was gone.

"Yes, absolutely. And this fellow Tomas exists. Beyond my affection for Neal, I am quite frustrated that someone is able to accomplish all of this with complete impunity."

"I don't like someone being able to pull off a massive con right under my nose," agreed Mozzie.

They were finishing their meals when they both froze simultaneously. "It's been too long."

"No way Neal had to wait in that long of a line for the john."

They leapt up and walked to the bathroom. Inside they found one of the photocopied pictures of Tomas Mendonça they'd been passing out for the last two days.

"Oh, this is too much," Mozzie fumed.

Pierre was already making the rounds of the two-level restaurant, but as expected, there was no trace of Neal.

"Do you think we should turn in that paper to the police to see whose fingerprints are on it?" Pierre pointed at the sheet between Mozzie's fingers.

"Peter would want us to, but honestly, fuck that. The FBI has flatfooted their way around this case and I've had it. This is personal, snatching my friend right out from under my nose. We do this our way. Besides, no way this guy leaves fingerprints."

"You and I, we think very much alike," Pierre agreed as they walked out.

Neal was lifted out of the van he'd been stuffed into, after having been dosed with God knows what kind of indigenous chloroform. His head hurt, and once the hood shifted and he was exposed to a sliver of the weak light in the indoor parking garage, his eyes hurt, too.

He was lowered into a large cardboard box, which was taped loosely and then lifted onto a dolly. The sounds he could discern as he was wheeled through what must be the service entrance after a discussion with a guard, they seemed vaguely familiar. Like the Setai building where he lived.

He was lifted out of the box, wrists still held together with a plastic tie, and righted onto a chair very quickly, and then lashed to the back. The hood was removed and when the dizziness subsided, Neal saw that he was in a luxury apartment building. Somewhere on the East Side, judging from the buildings he could make out with his blurry vision. What he'd heard was the sound of wealth.

"So nice to see you again, Mr. Caffrey," said the butler.

"I wish I could say the same," Neal gasped when the tape was torn off his mouth.

"That's quite all right. I would like to offer you water, which will help with the headache, but I'm not sure you'll accept it. These aluminum cans are quite tamper-proof, so perhaps you'd prefer a soft drink." He gestured to modernistic glass and chrome table between them.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "I don't suppose we can avoid the indignity of a drinking straw."

"Alas, your hands need to stay bound for this conversation. Ginger ale is acceptable?"

In a bizarre reenactment of the many times the butler had served him drinks at Prentiss Scott's house, Neal had the can opened for him and then the straw was placed so that he could bend and take a sip.

"Is there something in the air here as well?" he asked resignedly. "You're going to scramble my brains personally because you're bored with wearing on my patience by remote?"

"No, Monsieur Caffrey, not at all. It has never been my intention to confuse you, but rather to elucidate certain points that did not seem to be clear for you." He waved off Neal's objection. "And the best way to explain is for us to meet."

The ex-butler sat back easily against the leather sofa, his gray suit only slightly less formal than the one he wore in his old post. "Let me tell you a story," Tomas said.

"This story has been passed down through the ages. It is a tale of two peoples—Our People, and Their People.

"Our People know how to eat and sleep and wake and love. Our People were also born knowing how to be sick, how to go hungry and hate and die.

"There is much to do, for Our People, who have to work hard at all these pastimes. And at one time, each person was born with their own constellation of suffering, and spent their time on earth doing the best they could within it.

"Then came a day when Our People met Theirs. This was a whole new type of living, and one that caught us quite unawares. They had a peculiar way of concentrating their genius on suffering—others' suffering. The methodical way they packed the ships full, the way they mixed us up so that we had no one to speak our native languages to when we landed. The way they kept people working who had long since given up. We puzzled over it, Our People, and the mystery of why Their People acted as they did was something whispered about in huts late at night.

"Their People had their own customs, and they were especially interested in getting us to join in. Our People, too, had a religious ceremony in which we enacted the experiences of one of our gods, so we were curious to watch their procession that had one man acting as their god, carrying a piece of wood throughout the town.

"Except of course, Their People had one of Our People carrying all the weight of this wooden beam, while the man acting as the god wore the costume and had the drops of blood painted on his brow.

"Our People finally began to understand: These People were unable to understand suffering; something in them made it impossible for them to learn anything from the unpleasantness in life. It must be that they had always had someone, like the man walking behind the other man in the parade, to suffer for them. They required it, more than they needed Our People to cook and farm.

"And thus, tradition has it, that Our People created a servant king, a person chosen among our ranks to be our version of that god of theirs, who they seemed to keep around for the same reason as us—to feel and to bleed where they, for some reason, were unable.

"The servant king was allowed as a quaint custom because this person served for a year as the one who made Our People get along a little better, to see that we were one body together.

"Even to my youth, there was always someone, usually an older individual, who helped unite the servants in my area. Since Our People have always been unseen, we saw everything, and having a central person in whom to confide helped centralize our knowledge of the people we served."

Tomas glanced at Neal's face as if gauging his disbelief.

"I had the opportunity to leave Brazil in my early twenties, and quickly managed to move from serving the son of a livestock magnate while he sowed his wild oats in New York, to serving in a home that valued my gift with languages and thus arranged my papers for me.

"You will think I have some sort of grudge from a bad upbringing, but I assure you, I grew up among family and had everything I needed. Perhaps more than most, I paid attention to the old stories, however, and to people in general, so this must be what set me apart."

Neal's expression betrayed his conviction that something else entirely set apart this man from the rest.

"Moving around from post to post when I got bored, I began to see a pattern. Some of the people I worked for had some odd disability. They were utterly unable to see when they had said something hurtful, or stepped on someone's interests or been in any way selfish or cruel. Many of these were the hereditary rich, but I emphasize, not exclusively. It made me think of the Our People-Their People divide. And it made me think of the servant king.

"These forty years now, I have lived and served in New York City and its environs, with a few sojourns in Paris and England. I have seen many secrets, as any servant does, and have not used this knowledge for my own profit. Rather, I have endeavored to create a network that helps Our People take care of each other.

"Our People are doormen, cashiers, waitresses and janitors. Most of Our People don't know that they belong, but over forty years, many of the professions in which there is some informal history, they have heard of a person, somewhere in the city, who is looking out for them. They may be asked to do something very occasionally in the name of this person, and in return, a troublesome supervisor might become a little more tractable. A coveted position might open up somewhere else. Nothing major, you understand, especially in the early years before technology became such a help. But the tradition remained alive."

"But with Scott you found someone to take things farther. You started using the world's best surveillance equipment," Neal stated.

"These things were not totally beyond my possibilities before," Tomas smiled. "But certainly, with his means, and I might add, his brilliance, I was able to expand my operation." He held up his hand. "Scott never heard this story in precisely this way. What I had taken decades to build was too precious to share with someone who occasionally acted like Their People."

"Occasionally? He wanted to own me."

"Scott was the first that I taught a lesson he desperately wanted to learn. Whatever you saw in him, it wasn't all drugs. He was a genuinely wonderful man in many ways. But he needed to sink, needed to go through darkness, although his money was keeping him stubbornly afloat.

"For a long while, he was abiding by the stakes of the game. Using the art of suggestion to give people a choice, and if so often people make the wrong choice, that was due to their own problems. When Scott became interested in these traditional calmatives as a way to influence behavior, I thought little of it, because these herbs are widely used to no ill effect in my homeland."

"But—"

"Before you can object, no one was supposed to have more than one or two doses. And for that reason, I was very unfriendly to you, Mr. Caffrey, because you spent so much time in the house and Scott made it his affair to regulate how much you received. He slipped God knows what into every drink you shared. I turned out his rooms and still I would see you leaving in much worse shape than you arrived, meaning that he kept his supplies from me. To this day I don't know what he gave you, but we had arguments about it. He couldn't bear to let you go.

"That's when I realized that you were the suffering he had been waiting for. You were the thing that made him alive in a place where he had not felt for a long time. And I like you, Mr. Caffrey, so I decided to give you a gift."

"Almost killing me is not the nicest gift I've ever received," Neal observed drily.

"Maybe it is," Tomas said in his soft, melodious voice. "As Scott saw the unresolved attraction between you and your colleague, so did I. And I also saw that nothing would ever come of it."

"You have no way of knowing that," Neal protested. "We would have figured it out eventually."

"No. No, I don't believe you would have. For all your inconveniences with the FBI, you were content. And Peter was in a stasis with his job, his wife, everyone allowing him to have this monomaniacal focus on his criminal consultant. You were a much less serious-minded person before you got ill, whether or not you admit it."

Neal made a noise of disgust but said nothing.

"You can't tell me it didn't mean something to be so sick, and for Peter to be there for you. It's a criminal's worst nightmare, to be helpless, and all your charm and physical attributes had vanished for the moment. Yet there was your colleague, at your bedside. It would have taken something that big to get you over whatever past hurts you have that made you unlikely to choose a relationship with a man."

Tomas made a calming gesture. "A trained therapist can also pick out people who have suffered a trauma of an intimate nature. I happen to know people, that's all. It's not that I've searched out whatever episode in your past. I, unlike some, do not delight in others' misfortune. Far too much of it exists in the world already."

Neal raised his eyebrows.

"And your colleague, I could see immediately, had lived fully but within a narrow expanse of life. You cannot deny this. He was generous and brave and not at all in touch with the world outside of the case placed in front of him."

Neal knew there was something in his face that was acknowledging there was some truth to that.

"He was so fascinated by you that I saw Agent Burke rotate like a sunflower before the sun in front of you. What he must have experienced, pursuing you and then working with you, was a hundred new colors and savors coming into his realm. You, Mr. Caffrey, were the suffering he had been waiting for. As he was for you. Yet still, without some sort of catalyst, you would have been inert together."

Neal set his jaw. He'd about had it with people telling him who he was and what he was capable of.

"Instead of running off to Canada, you ended up in the hospital, and you came back. You are perfectly capable of staying on the run indefinitely, so you must admit there was a strong chance this relationship of yours would never have happened. For one thing, you have a documented inability to deal with stasis. You would have found him too staid."

"And you've been targeting Peter, especially, because you think he needs to learn how to suffer?" the prisoner couldn't hold back any longer.

"I think he had some catching up to do to be worthy of you," Tomas said, pouring more tea from the teapot in front of him.

"The man who fascinated me right off with his sincerity and his intelligence did not need any improvement," Neal snapped.

"Tell me that you didn't get over your mistrust of him in part because of the misfortunes you've endured together. And that he finally decided to leave his wife just before your patience would have eventually run out. You don't suffer from low self-esteem, that I've noticed, Mr. Caffrey. You could have any woman you wanted, with much less turmoil. But love doesn't grow in a hothouse, that I've seen."

"Where does it grow for you? Surveillance footage of other people?" Neal cast a disparaging glance at the older man.

"Our People know how to love," was all that Tomas said about that. Then he resumed, "That's how I knew you were one of us. You know how to love. And so, we have discovered in the final analysis, does Peter."

"Game over then," Neal said, having scraped his wrists raw trying to get out of his bonds.

"Not quite. Your companion has essentially given up his career for you. What are you willing to give up for him?"

"Take the money, if that's what this is about," Neal said. "Scott didn't leave you anything in the will. Okay, take what you want, and let me and Peter be. Can't you see that these are our lives to live, not yours?"

"The money is neither here nor there." Tomas produced two envelopes. "In each of these packets there is some evidence of a crime. Since justice can often be swayed by those with the means to do so, you will be able to get a reduced sentence, but there is almost assuredly jail time. Definitely some sort of mark on the record is inescapable."

"You're asking me to choose whether to send myself or Peter to jail in the short term? Of course I'll go. I know how to survive," Neal scoffed.

"Peter or your little friend, Mozart."

Neal struggled in vain against his bonds. "This is insane. I won't lend my ear to more craziness from you, Mr. Servant King. Your us vs. them worldview is only the tip of your mental illness iceberg."

He leaned forward as far as he could. "If you have a 'people,' sir, it's Brazilian people. I've been there: great cuisine, amazing dancers, tiny swimsuits. Brazil. You are not the head of the proletariat in New York City. Maybe you are a very organized crazy person, and that's how you've meddled in our lives to this extent, but I do not buy in to your personal mythology. Kindly let me go."

Tomas laid a hand on each envelope. "I'm afraid that these are merely copies. The real evidence is already en route to the authorities. If you do not make a decision soon, both of them will be delivered."

"Some demented version of the prisoner's dilemma?"

"You and your lover deserve to know what kind of man you are."

Neal smiled. "There is no contest here, but I'm curious what you expect me to do." He studied the other man's reaction. He stared and he stared, and then burst out laughing.

"I would think having to condemn someone close to you would be no laughing matter, Mr. Caffrey," the ex-butler said.

Neal laughed until he cried, and then he finally got hold of himself. The crying would have to wait.

"I've been sitting here, Mr. Mendonça, wondering why your little evil mastermind speech fell flat for me. And now I understand what all of this is about. Every bit of it. And I have to say, I feel 100% better at this moment, because I was sure I'd lost my touch. None of this has made any sense to me all these months, but it's not because I can't read a con anymore. All you did was direct attention to the wrong place." He laughed again, and saw how little his interlocutor liked the sensation.

"Mozzie is the servant king. He is the one who can unite people, and organize their sympathies towards a cause. And you can't stand it. This whole thing has been a tour de force, a senseless show of prowess for Mozzie's benefit."

"I don't know what you mean," Tomas said testily. "It's he that's been riding off my coattails his entire tenure in this city. I was here for three decades before he arrived. The waiters, the delivery men, the doormen, all were primed by me."

"Maybe it was technology, maybe Scott's resources, but I'll bet your little game took off in a big way about ten years ago, and you've been stewing about it ever since," Neal continued. He laughed some more. "You do realize that even if he'd known that you were trying to provoke him, Mozzie wouldn't fight you. He'd probably burn an incense stick in your honor." Perhaps it was the drug still in his system, but the petty reason behind all he'd suffered made Neal's laugh get away from him.

The punch to his jaw knocked the chair backwards.

"I've never done that before. Not myself," the older man was saying, looking in wonder from his hand to the trickle of blood coming from Neal's nose.

"How is it for you?" Neal asked politely.

"It's too bad," the host said, going over to the freezer and wrapping some ice in a towel. "I rather liked it, but unfortunately years of polishing silver and the like have given me mild arthritis. Like so many things, I started too late."

He returned to the couch. "You know, I do believe this is you trying to turn the tables on me, in hopes that I'll spare all of you. But this is a question of battling worldviews. Which shall prevail—will you remain loyal to your criminal past, at the expense of your lover's future and reputation? Or will you choose him over your oldest friend? It's a choice that you would have faced sooner or later."

"For you, I do believe it is a question of worldviews, Tomas. That's your pathology, all the rest of this game being merely your attempt to act like a crazy person. That's why I couldn't get a bead on your motivations. There was no passion in the moves you made. If someone were jealous of either me or Peter, say, things would have gotten more vicious more quickly. I know why you brought me here. You wanted to pump me full of your noble vision of yourself as the true king of New York's proletariat, so that no matter who I choose to bring down, Mozzie gets the message that none of his accomplishments in this city are really his. It's a win-win for you. Except nobody's going to turn on him, if that's what you're thinking."

The laugh bubbled up out of Neal despite his best efforts to control it. The butler calmly stood up, picked an umbrella out of the stand and hit Neal with the crooked wooden handle, hard across the jaw.

"That's a handy trick," he said, hefting the umbrella in his hand. He stood over Neal. "Every restaurant worker in the city has been at my command. The doormen in your building. The concierge. And a good many of the criminals as well have been following my directions all this time. I am Mozzie, you see."

Neal gave off wondering if his jaw was broken to stare at the butler. "What?"

"As I say, most people have neither met him nor me. And not everyone has met you, Mr. Caffrey. When 'Mozzie,' everyman-criminal, asks someone to, say, let someone else know when Peter leaves your building. Or a waitress calls a number when she sees you leave a restaurant. They truly believe that your friend is settling a score."

The pain in his jaw wasn't as bad as the pain that thought caused Neal. "Mozzie is a Buddhist. He would never incite violence." He groaned. "That's why people assumed that Mozzie was going to harm them for not having helped me when I was sick. You've not only been riding on his coattails, you've been deliberately tainting his reputation."

Tomas nodded. "If something were to happen to the man who was escorted into this apartment today, it would have been on Mozzie's head." He smiled more assuredly, seeing Neal's discomfit. "Not to worry, Monsieur Caffrey. As you say, you are more valuable to me alive, and no one's murder is the crime in either of those envelopes. But your time is up. Do you choose to sacrifice your hard-won love to this quaint notion of a happy-go-lucky criminal world marshaled by a benevolent little man? Or do you—"

"The choice is between people, sir, not all of these abstractions. You should stick to your day job, whatever it is, because you are not called to be a con-man. Life is about people, and messy feelings, and ugly little things like jealousy."

He expected the blow this time and toppled the chair to miss it.

"Everything you have said here today is a lie. You enabled Scott to do whatever he wanted to me, to Peter, to all those people. Maybe you started off by standing back and thinking, 'Why are rich people so fucked up?' But you had your own game going, and when I showed up that day you couldn't believe your good fortune. A direct line to Mozzie."

The butler dangled the envelopes in front of Neal. "Kindly nod at which envelope you choose, so that I can enjoy my win-win, and you can reap what may well be a lose-lose."

"That one," Neal indicated with his chin. "Can I go now?"

"Absolutely." The older man made a phone call. He withdrew to another room when the knock came at the door.

"Come in," Neal called from the floor. A bag was over his head in a minute and he was cut free from the chair and put back into the box, his hands still bound.

"Neal Caffrey, you will not lose it until this is finished, do you hear me?" he rehearsed to himself all the way he was wheeled on the dolly, down the service elevator, and then put into the van.

By the time he was dumped somewhere, Neal's mind was made up.

He got out of the hood easily, and then found a piece of glass to cut off the plastic tie. It took much more time and care than he wanted to dedicate to the task, but he finally got free without slitting his wrists in the process. It was almost dark, in an unfamiliar section of Brooklyn, and Neal started walking towards civilization while he placed the call.

"I'm fine Mozzie. I'm heading in your direction." He felt for his wallet. Everything was still there. "As soon as I can find a cab to take me to Manhattan. I'm in Bed-Stuy. Really, I'm fine. You and Pierre get ready, because we need to move fast."

Neal found a place where there was a likely cab and he placed a fast call to Peter.

The cab came and Neal got in. "You look like you've had a hell of a day, mister," the cabbie said.

His passenger looked in the rearview mirror. His nose had bled down his face. His jaw was swelling. Hair all mussed. "Actually, I think it's starting to get better."

Neal told himself that it was the distorted jaw that made his smile look unfamiliar in the mirror.


	25. Chapter 25

Peter handed in his resignation the next day. With it, he tendered the records from the several different psychiatrists he'd consulted upon Terence's advice.

"Should I consider this the beginning of a lawsuit?" Hughes asked.

"Not at all, sir. It's actually the God's honest truth, and from the 180 degree change in my attitude towards you, I think you know it," Peter said pleasantly. There was a certain peace in knowing there was nothing else to do. "If it weren't for the very competent help from Terence, I'm very confident my brain would be in much worse shape. But you can't have an agent who's afraid of certain cops."

"Caffrey has to come in and give a statement about the kidnapping yesterday," Hughes said. "Last straw, huh?"

"You could say that. He's coming in after I leave. I wanted to do this alone," Peter said.

He and his now-ex supervisor spent almost an hour talking about terms for his exit. Now that Hughes was no longer in charge of him, Peter felt the old ease he used to feel with the man.

"There's no way around this?" Hughes asked at the end, and Peter knew it was his way of saying he wish things were different. They both knew there was no other way. He'd grown out of the bureau, and his supervisor wasn't fool enough to deny it.

Peter turned in his badge and gun and felt only the slightest pang. Once he was out of the building he sent emails by phone, carefully worded messages that he'd readied last night. One for Diana. One for Jones. Inviting them together to an evening with him and Neal, where they'd talk about things.

Then Peter went to the Bronx Zoo while Neal had his interview. He'd earned it. He saw that the bonobo chimp pen no longer bore Scott's name. Now it was credited to an anonymous benefactor. "Smart donation, Neal," he murmured. The small wins had to be enough.

Neal sat down for his statement. "I'd hoped to never have to come here again," he smiled at Hughes.

"The butler hauled you in to tell you some crazy story about slavery?" Hughes asked in disbelief. "That sounds like an awful lot of trouble."

"The man is off his rocker, that should be obvious by now. We've tried our luck with the FBI, and it's not working for us, Agent Hughes. Peter and I have earned a chance to try to live our lives as best we can less one set of surveillance."

"Fine, Caffrey. Stop by the tech unit to help narrow down which block it was you saw from the window of that apartment."

"You're a very decent human being, Agent Hughes," Neal said, standing up and offering his hand. "Thank you for not doing any number of things to stand in the way of Peter and me."

"You've done right by him so far," Hughes said, shaking his hand.

Neal noted the cagey compliment.

Two days later a large package was delivered in the lobby of the FBI. Naturally, bomb squad was called because of the unusual size. Hughes stood by waiting for the box to be cleared.

"It's addressed to you, sir," someone finally said.

"I know," the old agent said. "I know what's inside, too. Clear the area of anyone squeamish, will you? Open very carefully."

Once open, the box revealed what was left of Tomas Maria Mendonça, on a bed of dry ice.

"I lost count at thirty of the number of stab wounds," Jones said. "That's a mess such as you don't see every day."

"Murder on the Orient Express style, a lot of people wanted a piece of this man," Hughes noted. "What's that paper say?"

Diana extricated a sheaf of papers protected from the gore with a ziploc bag. "Oscar Simpson, shipping magnate, one of the people we've identified from the gaming network." She scanned the pages quickly. "Someone has put together a nice file linking him to the butler as the one providing financial support and helping him lay low."

"How nice of them," Hughes said neutrally.

Later that day the appeal made its way to his desk. One of Peter's cases, being appealed on the grounds that he'd planted evidence. The proof was quite substantive. Hughes sat there for a long time.

"Burke," he said into the phone. "You and I both know you didn't plant evidence. But as your friend, I want to know—did you have anything to do with the butler arriving trussed up on my doorstep?"

"No," Peter said, thinking it wise not to feign ignorance. "I left the city right after I quit. The news did reach us here, however. Neal and I are having a rest in Long Island. Us and a couple bodyguards.

"Of course you are," Hughes said after he hung up.

"Don't worry, Peter, Hughes isn't going to rake us over the coals. He knows an airtight alibi when he sees one," Neal said. He had no regrets about spreading the news of the imposter through the criminal community. Many people had been roped in to doing a lot of risky work for this complete stranger. And yes, Neal liked to think that Mozzie was a symbol that everyone needed to believe in and keep safe.

That some people did not at all take kindly to their trust being violated in the name of their beloved everyman was not Neal's affair. Nor Peter's. They spoke about it once, and never again.

They had spent the last several days being whipped by the cold sea wind as if it could purify them and their relationship of so much darkness.

The two men bought fish and had simple meals, simple wine, long silent sits by the fire that would sometimes erupt into thoughts that had long been brewing.

"You know, I think the hardest thing of all this was going to those shrinks and having to listen to them call our relationship a mid-life crisis," Peter said, their bodies intertwined under the blanket.

"Your average mid-life crisis dissolves quickly in the face of adversity, and many a relationship wouldn't have survived to this moment, together, warm and quiet, " Neal said into Peter's shoulder. "Although," he looked up at his partner, "a lot of times people tend to discount same-sex connections, or anything different, as being less valid. Maybe your shrinks had some problems of their own."

"To hear Terence tell it, they always do. Was this my first incidence of being stereotyped?" He shook Neal. "I feel like I've arrived. Welcome to your gay new life, Peter Burke." He threw back his head and laughed, and then pressed Neal down on the couch. "One of many aspects of this life that I wouldn't change."

"You've changed so much, Peter. You're yourself, only more so," Neal breathed in Peter's ear.

"Change started heading towards my life a long time ago, I think. When everything started getting shaken up, I chose the right thing to hold onto," Peter folded his body around Neal's.

Neal gave into the smoldering being infused into his body from Peter's. But like the fire warming him on one side, another side of him was cold. He wasn't at all sure that his lawyers would be able to get Peter out of serving some jail time, but he'd promised his lover, and himself, that he wasn't going to ruin their time until then by worrying about what he had done to bring all of this about.

"It doesn't seem grand enough, after all this, but I love you, Peter," Neal said, resting on the other man's chest after they eventually tumbled onto the rug. "I suppose it's like art—I fuss over it and obsess about proportions being just right, and in the end, it just is. It's alive and it is greater than me, if I'm lucky." He stared into the crackling flames. "I did my best, and it can be summed up with four letters that have been misused and abused. A word as trite as they come—"

"Shut up," Peter said. "I didn't go through all this to keep caring what others think of us. About what's in my medical chart or what someone says behind our backs when we walk down the street so in love it knocks them back a foot." He kissed gently up the length of Neal's still-sore jaw. "I'd never realized the extent to which people saw me as this big child, too innocent to understand the subtleties of the world. But you of all people, please give me the credit for what I've fought through to the adult who has chosen you, is choosing this. For the last time, Neal Caffrey, let me in."

And perhaps because he was tired of fighting it, Neal let some last barrier fall. Peter saw it clearly, in a new shade of blue washing over those irises. "Move in with me. Officially. Do this for me, until—we have to do otherwise. Let's have a home," Neal proposed.

"You know that bodyguard just walked by outside and saw us crying our eyes out through the window," Neal sniffled some minutes later.

"If we've cried separately before, why not together?" Peter reasoned. "I left my sense of shame somewhere along the way, and I have to tell you it's quite a heady sensation."

They made love again. Under the blanket. Slowly. Respectfully. For a little while they feared nothing, regretted nothing, were beyond any need to justify what they were doing. At last they fell asleep, but not without coming up with a plan for the next few months.

Neal wanted to sell the cold apartment at the Setai and move into his old apartment at June's. Terence was now fast friends with their landlady and could move into one of the lower rooms.

"We can have Diana and Jones over," Peter said excitedly. His life was now an open book. He could have friends in.

The next day they went back to the city. Neal said he was going to see Mozzie, who was still shaken by having his identity corrupted all this time.

"Why, Neal, it's so good to see you," Elizabeth said from where she was straightening the meditation cushions in the dojo. "Oh, hold on. Come with me."

She led him up some stairs to where a series of small meditation rooms were located. "Sit down," she said, turning the dial on the room to "occupied."

Neal's tears broke into sobs and he cried for a long time. "I didn't want to, but Mozzie can't do time. I couldn't open him up to his whole past being looked at under a microscope."

"I know, Neal. And Peter knows. Yes, he called me. We've talked several times." Neal's surprise made him compose himself. "If Mozzie went away, it would be for decades, those were Peter's words."

"If Peter had stayed with you, Elizabeth, none of this would have happened."

She sighed. "You sit right here, and let me tell you a story."

Stroking her hands through Neal's hair as he rested his head on her lap, Elizabeth spoke. "When Mozzie recommended I study with this Buddhist monk, I didn't know what to expect. The first day, I showed up for the appointment, and he asked what made me not at peace.

"My answer was nothing, except for the people who kept trying to turn my life into a tragedy. The phone calls from women looking to commiserate about how rotten men are. A few relatives that never thought Peter was good enough for me My father, most of all. And my mother, treating me as if I'd been wronged and needed to take Peter for all that he was worth.

"Neal, I've never been a showstopper." She held up her hand. "My grades were extremely good, but I'm not someone you remember. I don't stand out. Which has put me in a good position to observe people, and that's something I'm very good at.

"My father can be a harsh man, but his ability to turn everything into someone else's problem, probably typical of psychiatrists, did teach me one important thing: a lot of times, if there's a problem, it's someone else's problem. This single insight has helped me get through a lot of things in life, so that when the sympathy calls started coming in, I knew that there was something wrong with the world, but not with me."

Elizabeth looked down at Neal affectionately. "Life isn't a tragedy, Neal, it's not meant to be, that much I know. For all the people that insisted upon making me into a victim or Peter into a monster because our marriage broke up, well, they're part of the large percentage of the population I have to let do their own thing, because it makes no sense to me. Literature runs on tragedy, to be sure, but life isn't meant to make good reading, in my opinion.

"The three of us are reasonable people who happen to all love each other, perhaps in different ways, but our level of respect is equal. Certainly it's been painful for me, but I believe that if Prentiss Scott hadn't entered our lives, the wheel of chance might have landed somewhere else." She traced her finger around Neal's lips. "I've stopped going to counselors, because they keep making this," she caressed his cheek, "to be some disaster that hit my life, and that of my husband. And you may be many things, Neal Caffrey, but I do not regret your entry into a space that I still think we were reserving for you."

He opened his mouth but she put a finger to his lips.

"This is what I poured out, more or less, to this little monk who was a complete stranger. And when I was done, he took my hand and led me into a classroom, making a signal to the monk who was teaching the class, and sat me in front of the room where the instructor had been.

"'But I don't deserve this! I don't know anything!' I protested.

"Then the monk took me to where someone was sweeping the floor. 'Do you deserve this?' he asked. 'No!' I said. 'Well, then, which will it be?' he asked me. So I went back to the class and told them some of the things that had been on my mind. About how things just sort of happen, and there was a much larger picture at work. A picture I've always had a sense of, but just assumed that everyone else would never see it, so it was useless. Something made me express the things I think about every day, while I'm at work, or washing the dishes. And the monk stopped me every once in awhile to translate what I said into some of the basic tenets of Buddhism."

Elizabeth laughed. "Don't look so impressed! They do these things, the Buddhists, everything is an object lesson. But I can't tell you how good it feels to be able to share this sense I have and not feel like I'm the odd woman out, like I always have.

"My father doesn't think I've done enough in my life. It's very clear he thinks event planning is way down the intellectual totem pole. But for me, it's like that book that came out a few years ago—'The God of Small Things.' I like working with all these details that I know are meaningless, the centerpieces and the bread baskets, and making something out of nothing. A little universe, that lasts for a couple hours. Life is made up of insignificant things. And I'm good with absurd little details."

She smiled. "For some odd reason, this makes me an excellent Buddhist. I spend a lot of time here, when I'm not working. Here, I'm not a wronged spouse. I'm an atom in the middle of this huge, absurd universe. And also an instructor, should you care to learn more about the Noble Truths," she bowed, giggling, and then lay on the floor next to Neal. "We're moving so fast through the universe it only feels like we're standing still," she confided.

He took her hand and they shot through the universe together. "Come see me as often as you like, Neal. Bring Peter. This seems to be an unpopular view, but I think some people are too important to allow to leave our lives, simply because things change."

Neal sat up. "I've been doing a lot of crying, recently, not all of it the bad kind. Now hold very still." He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her for real, just the two of them, a man and a woman, alive, naked in the way that really matters.

"There," he finally said, laying her gently back down. "That needed to happen."

"Yes it did. Now we know," she said, getting to her feet and pulling him up by the hand. "I'm glad I wasn't crazy to think we could share that. My future is totally wide open, and I have no expectations that the rest of my prophesy for the three of us will ever come true." She laughed. "But should you need an event planner, please book at least six months in advance."

Neal looked stricken. "We need to get through the next few months first."

"Thanks for seeing me as an atom, Neal. I feel as though we disappointed a lot of people by not getting into a hair-pulling fight," Elizabeth whispered as they walked through the dojo.

"Who knows what the future holds?" he said, kissing her on the cheek. "But yes, I won't take you for granted, Elizabeth. You're always yourself for me."

Hughes called in Marina DiGioia to make a statement about her group. She came with a minimum of fuss and made two statements: one on the record and one off. When she emerged from the private meeting, Jones and Diana cornered their boss.

"Did you get anything? Anything we can prove?" Jones demanded.

Hughes shook his head. "They're a bunch of rich people who occasionally do something in the spirit of the law that the letter of the law can't do. Sure, there's probably illegal surveillance galore, but we can't keep wasting the manpower on bringing down the pillars of several communities. We've got this Oscar Simpson fellow for aiding and abetting all kinds of things this butler did, simply out of boredom, I suspect. That's going to have to be good enough."

The old man didn't get his moral victory he so yearned for. Instead, he spent the next few months until his retirement trying to fight Peter's bogus evidence-planting charge that was expertly contrived, he had to admit.

When he retired, he called together a bunch of his sober retired law enforcement cronies for one of their games of matchstick poker and root beer. "This time I want to play a different game," Hughes said, with a smile playing around his lips. "It will require a wager…"

Eight months later, Peter was released from prison. Thankfully he had only been in four months, but the impeccably planted evidence had made it seem like he'd been guilty of tampering with evidence. Really, he told himself many times that he was lucky Neal's lawyers tried every trick in the book and then some to get him out of it, because the whole charge was perfectly trumped up and could have meant more jail time.

Minimum security confinement meant that all of Neal's frightening prison survival lessons had been thankfully unnecessary. Terence's coaching helped him prevent most of his problems with the authority figures surrounding him, but Peter had to do some work to keep from giving in to occasional paranoia.

Mostly he read—the prison library lent itself mostly to cheap crime novels and self help books, but Neal sent him whatever he asked for, which was history, books on the stars, some philosophy. Things that made him look at the big picture. Mozzie had sent him Voltaire, which ended up being very apropos for incarceration. Elizabeth sent copies of funny old photographs, and Terence sent him a journal with instructions to write in it every day.

Peter filled it up quickly and asked for another.

The first time he came to visit, Neal took one look at Peter in his grey work suit, and he wept.

"At least it's not orange," Peter soothed him without breaking the no-touching rule.

Neal wiped his eyes. "If it had been Mozzie, there would have been a domino effect, and he would have been in prison for decades on all his undiscovered exploits," he said for the hundredth time since he was released by his kidnapper.

"This is nothing, I tell you. A mere inconvenience. The weeks go by like nothing—"

"If you say 'nothing' one more time I'm going to scream."

"Tell me what's been going on. I'm dying for real conversation here," Peter said. "Everyone is mostly trying to one-up each other with their white collar crimes, and I want to tell them that they're not the best criminals out there." He flashed a smile at his visitor.

Neal pulled himself together and told all the amusing anecdotes he'd been saving up, marveling that Peter was dealing with things so well.

"Every time you walk through that door you make me into the luckiest man alive," Peter said. "Even if I can only show you off to a bunch of low-level embezzlers, I love having you to show off."

"You decide where you want to go and you can show me off anywhere in the world when they let you out."

"At night I bunch up the scratchy blanket between my toes and pretend it's sand," admitted Peter.

Never much of a writer, Peter spent every spare minute-after chores, occupational therapy and exercise there wasn't as much as he would like—trying to put his thoughts together about these tumultuous months. It sounded so impossible when he put it on paper, but he knew it had happened. It was especially entertaining to pretend he was other people, and by imagining Neal's side of the story he was able to feel close to him.

The thought of being in prison without Neal to look forward to was too dismal to be entertained.

On this day Peter was released with a sack of journals and the books he didn't give away.

He walked towards the limo with tinted windows. The door swung open before him. "You always did like the big statements."

"I wanted to give you a deluxe welcome back to society," Neal said. "Pardon us, Jeeves."

Pierre put on a pair of headphones and started the car. Neal pressed the button that slid a tinted dividing window into place.

The first kiss after four months bloomed between them like a seed bursting into flower at the first touch of sun.

There was a brief tussle about the division of pleasure. Neal won. "The next time I'm released from prison, it's your turn," he stated.

"Marry me," Peter groaned some time later.

"I see I haven't lost my touch through enforced abstinence," Neal observed, righting himself and settling his clothes.

Peter contented himself with catching his breath and holding Neal close. They drove out to Long Island to a rented house. It was a cool day in October, but Peter stripped to his underwear and plunged in for a moment. He ran back to the house dripping.

"Left that smell behind?" Neal asked sagely.

"Thank God. Industrial disinfectant seeped into my dreams." Peter toweled off and got into some dry clothes. They had real food and he had thirds it tasted so good. When they were lying in the bed with gloriously non-scratchy linens, he turned to Neal. "I meant it."

"Never make a decision on the day you get out of prison. It's how a thousand bad tattoos and ill-starred marriages come into being," Neal said gently, tracing his lover's form with his finger, over and over.

Six months later they were married on a Long Island beach. In tuxes, and barefoot in the sand. Mozzie officiated. "I'm always happy to preside over the union of two members of the criminal world," he proclaimed.

Diana was maid of honor to Peter. Pierre was best man to Neal. There were assorted guests like Terence and June. And there was Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, taking care of the small things. "Remember, it's the details that bring down a criminal, and a marriage," she whispered to Neal. Her plus-one was a monk who did card tricks. Just a friend, she insisted.

After the wedding, Peter and Neal disappeared.

Pierre and Mozzie declared that they didn't know where the two had gone. Pierre was still in charge of making Neal's millions give birth to millions, however, so presumably he knew that there was money being deducted—and added—to the various accounts.

"People burn out on a town and they have to go reinvent themselves," Mozzie shrugged. "They'll be back."

Elizabeth found a box in the mail. "It may not be much, but this is how I think it all happened," said the top sheet in Peter's handwriting.

She read every page and stored the box with other little atoms that, together, meant love to her.

~fin~


	26. Chapter 26

~Epilogue~

Still in the hinterlands of sleep, Neal felt the hand on his arm and kept his eyes closed for maximum effect.

The weight and the friction of the skin as it slid lightly down from his shoulder was like his own personal sun, warming him and attracting him with a welcome gravity. In the moments before Peter would ease his body to fit behind the inert Neal, as they lay close together for a few minutes every morning, Neal's mind and body remembered.

He was in the hospital in Chicago, only he hadn't pieced that together yet. Neal was in the midst of his drug withdrawal and his body was fighting off a massive infection, and his going theory alternated between having gone insane and existing within a carefully constructed nightmare world he vaguely intuited he'd been living in for some time.

Peter.

It was all Peter's fault, was the thought that broke through the heists relived, the cops he imagined he was running away from, the women he had loved ghosting in and out of the room.

Peter was the one vivid spot who had inserted himself in his artistic idyll at Prentiss' house. His handler was the one who was constantly telling him what to do, and had now forced his way into Neal's most carefully walled-off area of his psyche with something Neal knew better than to see as love. What right did Peter have to scrutinize his CI's body and the well-hidden fact that it reacted to men?

Neal existed in this nightmare realm for some unknown length of time, raging at Peter when his specter appeared, running away from the hazily remembered men who had paid him as a teenager, and in between, approaching terrible physical sensations that had him retreating quickly back into brutal dreams as the better alternative.

Then one day he felt it. It registered as some cool oasis within his feverish hallucinations, but he intuited that it was not unfamiliar—merely, that it had taken this long for this quiet, unassuming presence to distinguish itself among the more violent sensations. He gravitated towards it, curious, in need of relief. With his eyes bandaged and his body restrained, Neal tried to articulate a question, "What is that?" but his tongue produced far too many ripples for such a succinct question.

He decided it didn't matter what it was, this cool spot that helped anchor some small part of him away from the delirium that kept beating against his mind. It was there sometimes; at times the spot moved around, and Neal was beyond all analysis. "Hello," he tried to make his mouth say. "Hello, nice feeling."

Then the hordes of double-crossing crooks and crooked cops were on him again, and Neal struggled with them as best he could without use of his arms or legs. Then he stopped. There it was, that feeling, Neal realized, beginning to slide along the path laid by that voice. It told him stories, light, amusing stories about someone who played high school football and had funny, normal conflicts with his two funny, normal parents. Neal couldn't follow all of it, but it didn't matter. He quickly grew adept at isolating it among all the sounds inside and outside his head. This silver ribbon curled just ahead of him, beckoning with the promise of something, somewhere better than this hell he was in.

As Neal's physical situation improved, he found it harder to keep his mind away from reality, and he was forced to exist in that hospital bed, subject to tubes and needles and lots of people talking over his head as if he had no say in his own wellbeing.

He preferred playing cops and robbers. At least that was familiar.

"You're sure his eyes are going to be all right?" he heard one day. "Neal has the most extraordinary blue eyes."

"Yes, the eye inflammation isn't so much the problem as his desire to itch them," replied the dry medical voice, indistinguishable from all the other dry voices that had been swirling around him.

The nice feeling was outside his head, too. Neal lay back against the pillow, reassured that it would be all right to exist in this hospital nightmare. But it proved very difficult to stay in what he was forced to recognize as reality. Everything was all confused, and the most annoying thing was that Peter kept messing everything up.

One day he was being detached from the dialysis machine he feared would be a fixture in his life from now on, and he smelled it. It was a Peter smell. Bay rum.

Neal was anything but pleased to know that his controlling handler was in the room, witnessing his humiliation and owning this, one more intimate portion of his ugly new reality.

Neal was forced to listen to Peter's voice tell him all about a so-called love he didn't want anything to do with. He heard about a future he didn't want with this man who had been his keeper for two years. He decided to get better out of vengeance, just so he could run away from this man who was benefiting so much from his CI's inert state.

But it was confusing. Sometimes Neal would find himself drifting off into that pleasantly cool oasis, and then wake up and realize he was talking to Peter.

His weakened body would harden in an instant.

"You were telling me about Scott's problem with his face," Peter's voice said softly.

"I'm tired of having my brain picked," Neal snapped to cover his confusion. "Can't you leave me a shred of privacy, or do you need to take it all for yourself?"

"It's all right, we can leave your statement until tomorrow. I'll be here," Peter replied in that infuriatingly self-assured way he had.

"I'd rather you weren't," Neal replied and then sunk into that cool river. This time it was telling him a story about him and Peter, one time when they were undercover together and got stuck in a closet. The chuckling stream relaxed Neal, made him forget about the persistent ache in his lower back and the cramp in his legs that he didn't have the strength to reposition. He didn't remember the story going this way, but he imagined the nice feeling squeezed into his narrow hospital bed as if it were the closet, and though he couldn't make sense of why, Neal felt warm and cool in the nicest way.

Finally, the bandages were removed and it was much easier for Neal to put together images and sounds. The sight of Peter in his same old suits was at least familiar, and Neal found himself falling back into something like their old routine, with a significant distance grown in between. He watched this man who wanted him, scrutinizing him for signs of possessiveness. Neal was frustrated to see that Peter had become adept at helping the nurses shift his weight when they moved him in the bed; that he seemed to know when his charge needed small talk rather than questioning and he brought him real food, if only so Neal could take a few bites and then smell the non-industrial aroma.

So Neal confronted Peter about his awkward declarations of love he remembered from his darkest moments, thinking he could flush out the part of his erstwhile friend who had laid some diabolical plan to get Neal into this position.

Where there was simply no one else.

Neal Caffrey always had choices. He was the one in control of his own destiny, and yet somehow, there he was, with only one person to look forward to walking through the door to his hospital room, clearing out the other law enforcement agents when he got too tired, the only person who saw him as Neal Caffrey, criminal genius and heartbreaker, hidden within some yellowed specter of a man hooked up to machines.

From his hospital bed, Neal could see how little of his life had survived some senseless onslaught of bad luck. He needed Peter to walk through that door, even if it was just to have someone to resent.

Which Peter seemed to take annoyingly in stride. Somehow, his visitor got him talking about the hustler chapter in his life he'd been reliving over and over these past few weeks. Surprisingly, Neal felt a little better, talking about it. He got lost in the release of speaking these dark truths, having learned in his blindness that there was that cool river flowing beside him.

When he was done, Neal started to find that the cool feeling had moved farther away.

Peter had withdrawn across the room. The nice thing was Peter.

It was something he couldn't totally comprehend at that moment, and he was ashamed at this new evidence of how far his reality had fractured, but the surprise was enough to make him agree to go out on a date with the man who might not be the dominating brute he had come to think Peter must be on some level.

For the rest of the time he was in Chicago, Neal recounted everything he could about his time at Prentiss Scott's mansion with a clarity that had been missing before. But his mind was engaged with a different problem—how to understand his own misfortunes with the part of the villain recast.

Still, the nicer Peter was to him, the more Neal began to resent his friend and protector all over again for having declared himself at a point in his life where he was ill-equipped to refuse.

"Why couldn't you have had your midlife crisis earlier, damn you? I'm Neal Caffrey, true romantic, not dependent victim. This is not the stuff passion is made of, and if I'm not careful I'm going to be stuck into some codependent situation out of misplaced gratitude."

The accusation was right behind Neal's eyes, and it was always answered by some unfathomable thing in the FBI man's gaze that never failed to make the younger man look away.

Returning to the city and the job he never planned on seeing again felt like a dream.

It all blew up in the car on the way back from his first day at the bureau since he ran. There was something about hearing his own experiences treated like a case, even more than the team's ideas about his being the butt of some sick joke, that made Neal rebel. He'd been the one stringing Peter along during their Wiley Coyote/Roadrunner days. Everyone knows the Roadrunner is in control!

Neal had never been so humiliated as he was that day. It was the last bit of his pride that the hospital indignities hadn't already taken. His excellent suit felt like a stark contrast with his pathetic state.

When they got back to the car, Peter fatally tried to fill the silence with, "So, why didn't you wear your hat today?"

"Sick people shouldn't wear hats!" Neal had exploded. "It makes everyone think of cancer. Unless you do have cancer, which is one shitty thing that hasn't happened to me yet. But who knows—maybe somebody arranged that for me, too."

"My instincts tell me no, Neal. This is about some kind of cause and effect that we can just see out of the corner of our eyes, not a disease that would be highly unlikely to have an unnatural cause."

"Glad to know that your instincts have such an insight into the mind of a sociopath!" Neal had shouted at Peter. All the way back to his apartment, Neal gave Peter a tongue lashing that was a masterpiece of invective, worthy of a Caffrey. Everything that Peter said, no matter how innocuous, was precisely the most annoying thing Neal could conceive of at that moment.

When they pulled up to his place, Neal had worn himself out to the extent that he had to rely on Peter's help getting out of the car. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning on the arm that transformed into a cool river.

"Are you all right, Neal?" he heard the nice voice say.

He opened his eyes and just managed to quell the hateful words from his lips. Neal contented himself with a nod and was led up to June's house in silence.

"I'll let you know if we need you to come in to the office again, but I hope you can rest until you're allowed back in the ranks of the hat-wearers," Peter had said, and then he was gone.

Neal stayed in bed for most of the next few days, feeling the words burning like a coal where he'd swallowed them:

"You get off so hard on me not being all right."

What Neal had found so annoying in the car ride back was that he and Peter had their own music they made together. No matter what Peter did, it was a part of their friendship symphony, built up over years. The point-counterpoint, whether in the key of laughter or anger, it connected them. Neal needed it. This was something he couldn't blame on anyone except himself, that he had allowed himself to become enmeshed with another man to this extent.

Neal had needed the excitement of the cat and mouse game with Peter far longer than he liked to admit.

Lying in bed at June's, he asked himself, over the years, why he never dated another man. It's not that there weren't plenty of attractive men in New York. Men made passes at him all the time. His best answer was that no one had tried very hard.

The superficial men were frozen out soon enough, and the more sensitive ones were quickly caught in the maze of approach/avoid signals Neal gave off to any man who dared to get too close. Every time, Neal found his axiom proved: women were more sensible, less frightened by complications. Why deal with all that if he didn't have to?

But in those next four days, Neal realized he did have to. Everything in him was sending off "approach" signals to the person who was somehow close to the center of his life, everything but the part of Neal that opened his eyes to a rare species of calm and saw himself looking at a man.

If only for his own mental cohesion, he had to figure out if the "avoid" gate that slammed into place was out of a trauma hardened into fact, or simply an optional sort of fear.

He needed to do some serious thinking. So naturally, Neal called Mozzie.

Things had been a little cool between the two of them because of his best friend's hurt at not being told about his escape. But Neal invited Mozzie over and watched him drink wine until the little man's legendary heart of gold began to melt.

There had never been any danger of Mozzie being fazed by Neal's frank discussion of the moot point of his long-avoided sexuality. The fact that the man in question was a fed did not go over well, however.

"The Suit? Why him? Look around you, Neal, there's any number of men interested in you. I can get you together with a few carrying a torch for you, people _from our world."_

Neal sighed. "I didn't choose this," he said with a bitter resonance that made his friend look over sharply.

"Then how can I help?" the other man asked.

"Perform one of your investigations on Peter. I haven't been paying attention to him for months. For all I know he's been going through his own hell."

Mozzie's face assumed a vague look.

"He told you?" Neal demanded, aghast that his friend would have held back something like Peter's feelings for him.

"He told me that he was having some kind of nervous breakdown. Believe me, if I knew that it was about you, I would have said something," Mozzie assured him, pouring more wine. "I'll look into it. Don't worry, I have a trustworthy source."

The next day, Mozzie had shown up with the results of his investigation. "He's moved out. I've met Elizabeth for lunch several times in the last few months, and she has a better poker face than I thought—she never let on," his best friend said. "Elizabeth told me yesterday that he got his own place not too long after you left—it's strange how calm she is about it. They see each other for lunch or dinner, but not in any way you should be concerned about, if you want to be the person in his life concerned about such things," Mozzie said, his divided loyalties apparent. "Are you?"

"I'm not sure," Neal said, doing a few more repetitions with the elastic band the physical therapist had given him for building up his muscle tone.

"I know for a fact that Peter has been freaking out for months without your being aware of it, so I can't blame you for stealing Elizabeth's husband," Mozzie muttered, looking anywhere but at his best friend.

"I haven't contributed to this process at all!" Neal burst out. "That's the problem! I'm Neal Caffrey—I don't do anything I don't want to do."

"Except if your boss, Peter, tells you to," Mozzie said pointedly.

"He's not my boss anymore, technically."

"What do you think is going to happen—you'll bring him along to meet all of your old criminal friends? You were already mixing the planes before, playing against people you know, but this—it's like you've decided to go straight indefinitely!" Mozzie burst out. Neal raised an eyebrow. "You know what I mean."

There was nothing wrong with seeing how things developed, Neal decided at some point during those four days. It wasn't a decision, so much as allowing himself to be carried by a cool river that had yet to harm him.

When Neal asked Peter to stay in that hotel room blessedly reminiscent of an old, carefree kind of luxury, all he wanted was to feel someone close to him while he slept. It was an age-old kind of instinct, he told himself while curling up inside the larger body. Wolves do the same to pool their warmth in hostile elements.

What he hadn't been quite prepared for was exactly how much heat their combined share turned out to be. Still, Neal was nervous, and so he forced himself to look at these features he had studied for so many months, these contours that had accompanied him as he unearthed his own ignored artistic impulses. Through painting this body over and over again, Neal had discovered that he could indeed still isolate the golden clockwork that lies at the center of every good painting.

Unbuttoning a quiet Peter's clothes that night, Neal rehearsed to himself what he had thought many times over the last few days. Each person was like a painting, and she—or he—had a shining mechanism inside, visible to those who were clever enough to look.

That night Neal looked at Peter with his eyes and hands until he found it. The golden coil at the center of this large body that was yet a silver river. Neal kissed it.

From then on, it was like remembering a language learned in one's youth. And Neal spoke it. For some reason it was important for him to speak through this, so that not even the pleasure was so great that it threatened to swallow him up. He might have been physically weak, but he knew secrets that his partner was eager to learn, and Neal molded Peter with his wisdom.

When it was done, Neal was as proud of the act as if it were the painting he had obsessed over for months. In many ways, it was one and the same.

Perhaps he made it sound too easy when he told Peter that night he simply accommodated things more quickly, Neal had thought many times since. It had been a painstaking process, putting himself back together to the extent that he could be the man eating room service, naked, with this big lout of a lover.

It wasn't easy at all—surely Peter must know all of his secrets by now and was simply too gracious to point out all the work that went into seeming to live effortlessly.

It was Peter who correctly interpreted the signs of unease coming from his husband about a year after they married. One evening, Neal met Peter out for some undisclosed dinner date in one of the many sunny locales that had started running together.

"Mozzie?" Neal had asked, surprised by the presence of his old friend. He looked around the room and saw a few faces he recognized from his criminal past, and several he didn't. Peter's face was grinning in the middle of it all.

"I thought you needed a gaming night," he said, motioning for Neal to sit beside him at one of the tables set up inside the anonymous warehouse.

"I'm tired of casinos," Neal objected. He didn't think much of gambling when you weren't trying to beat the system.

Pierre rolled out a table on wheels with some blocks and papers and assorted gaming paraphernalia. "I've checked it out with your lawyers, so please, enjoy yourself."

Mystified, Neal listened as Mozzie and Peter explained the game they'd concocted together.

Despite their careful phrasing, Neal immediately gathered that a real heist was in the offing, and by couching the evening in terms of a game, the former criminal could use his dormant skills by helping to plan it.

What no one could have been prepared for was how much Peter came to enjoy their new pastime.

Neal's husband had left his old, straightlaced FBI self far behind, so far that Peter had to take a tranquilizer when they were going through customs because uniforms tended ot set off his paranoia. Nevertheless, it seemed to do Peter good to reach back into all those years in law enforcement and play at being the opposing side to the criminals who were making use of Neal's genius at planning theoretical wrongdoing.

It was very much like the consulting business Peter had once thought of setting up, except the people who hung on his every word were much more interesting than aboveboard business owners, and Peter was explaining the psychology of cops rather than perps.

He didn't feel it was a rationalization at all to say that there was nothing wrong with discussing psychology with interested parties. Neal's friends tended to be like him, Mozzie and Pierre—nonviolent types who were allergic to living conventional lives, so the former FBI man was able to flout authority a bit without feeling like he was contributing to violence, per se. If anything, he was able to fill in some alarming gaps in gun knowledge that gave well-trained officers the edge over thieves trained only by the school of hard knocks.

Though they still spent much of their time doing legal activities such as Neal's artwork, their occasional gaming nights had brought a little unwanted attention from the law, which had caused a few terrifying moments for Peter. Still, their crafty team of lawyers had concocted an appropriately vague story to tell whenever they received a visit from a detective in whatever country they happened to be in at the time. As a former FBI agent and former FBI informant, wasn't if very likely that they were actually still occasional operatives feeding information to the US feds from their position of leisure?

Neal thought it was very likely, and he made the police in Hong Kong, France and the UK think so, too. Peter concentrated on his breathing exercises and then the adrenaline rush from having evaded further questioning gave him a high for days.

Peter woke before Neal, as he usually did. Perhaps it was long habit as a gainfully employed member of society versus Neal's more night owl customs. But Peter loved waking up in the morning and watching the other man sleep, or pretend to sleep, which is what he realized Neal did a few months into their marriage. He had come to sense that restless mind turning on by a sort of hum under the skin. For some reason, Neal liked to lay there and think, scheming, maybe, all the paths not taken.

There were parts of Neal he wasn't allowed into. Peter had always known this. It used to make him crazy, as when he used to chew his nails over possible infractions Neal was committing under his nose when they were FBI agent and CI. But so much had changed since then, and the first time Neal flew off to some undisclosed location without warning, Peter wisely chose to wait it out.

Neal had come back with the test in his eyes—would Peter react in any one of a number of ways that would serve as an excuse for his new husband to feel suffocated?

"I made some progress on this detective story while you were gone. Maybe you could read the part on the safe and give me your technical standpoint?" was all Peter said from his laptop.

Neal slunk into the hotel they had rented in Nice, and Peter allowed himself to be thoroughly examined for symptoms of possessiveness. Only after his husband had looked over every inch were they both satisfied.

He didn't believe Neal was cheating on him. Or committing any crime of note. Peter witnessed interested men and women be politely flirted into hopelessness every time they walked down the street together—Neal loved too hard to be able to hide any infatuation worthy of the word. Only when Elizabeth mentioned in an email that Neal came to visit her from time to time did Peter think anything serious was going on when they were apart, and even then, he decided it was none of his business.

You don't get to lie in bed next to a wild bird if you hold it too tight.

Slowly, gingerly, Peter crept up to the watchful, wild body as he was privileged to do most mornings. He grazed the arms, with his fingertips, slid his legs along the taut thighs and calves. Hello, good morning, his own skin said.

Peter watched his offering be considered from that quiet corner where Neal truly lived in the darkness. He was a patient man, and he watched his patience bear fruit with the slightest receptiveness shuddering over the skin.

The shoulder turned first, then the head. The face was suddenly awash in blue light.

Peter let Neal's sight flow all around him, unmoving, not needing to move because he was sure.

He watched the blue eyes perform some kind of mathematical function he was confident Neal would share with him one day.

"Good morning," Neal Caffrey said.

When his voice said so much more than that, marking with a whisper a few guideposts so that he was not lost in their early pleasure, they were both glad.


End file.
